


Howling at the moon

by Felis Draconis (opposablethumbs)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/Felis%20Draconis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Red Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.
> 
> General points of interest: the individual chapter titles relate to the traditional English names for the full moons mid August - mid Feb, and the final chapter is named for the lunar month Feb - March.
> 
> With kind thanks to Thursday_Next for being my reader.

“Watch out!”

Gwaine’s warning came a second too late; he saw the big, black beast’s paw slash out, sending Percival sprawling. The creature turned its head to the noise. It was monstrous, a thing of legends; a dyrwülf - taller than a man even on its four paws. Its eyes were a fierce, fiery umber that pierced through the night and its gleaming teeth were bared at Gwaine; who was suddenly very glad he had relieved himself before engaging in this fight.

Gripping his sword in both hands and planting his feet, Gwaine took a moment to gauge the battlefield. Leon was out cold to his right, a nasty-looking stain of blood matted his hair and caught the light of the full moon. Percival was smote against a tree, he was groaning but seemed in little better state than Leon. To his left the crumpled bodies of two fellow knights hung limply, draped over each other in a messy heap of broken limbs. They did not breathe. One had been a new recruit from House Eardhart, the other a young man from a poor family who had proved himself in the tourney. His name was Ulsted. He had been promised to a lass who worked in the kitchens of Castle Camelot. Gwaine whispered a small prayer; both for them and for himself.

The beast charged.

Gwaine levelled his sword. It was up to him now. He roared; a wordless animal noise to match that of the dyrwülf’s howl. Steel met claw with a sound that rang through the clearing. He span away, twisting from the strike aimed at his stomach. His sword arced and sliced through the creature’s flank. The air was filled with the rank, metallic stench of blood and fetid breath as the dyrwülf howled in pain. It turned on him again, the rage of death blossomed in its eyes. Gwaine stepped back, caught his foot on something and stumbled. It was Leon’s unconscious body. He landed to one side, his sword knocked from his hand in the fall, and the dyrwülf pounced, pinning him to the torn and muddy ground. Its huge head blocked out the stars. Gwaine could see his own face reflected in its stare. He had looked better.

The dyrwülf snapped at his face, almost toying with him. Hot, acrid spittle dripped on his cheek. The sweat from the dyrwülf’s pelt made it possible for Gwaine to wriggle an arm free. He groped blindly for his sword, the one slight chance for survival that remained to him. He felt his fingers brush the pommel but the mud made it too slippery to grasp. The wolf growled and gnashed at his throat. He raised his arm to protect himself. The dyrwülf’s teeth sank deeply into his arm; he felt the flesh pierce and render, the blood gush forth. Its muzzle was painted red.

Gwaine knew this was the end. He closed his eyes.

A shrill shriek broke the night. It faded to a whuffing whimper. The dyrwülf trembled and went limp, almost crushing Gwaine beneath it.

Gwaine opened his eyes. The dyrwülf was shoved from him; by his own hands and those unseen. The stars were back. Stood over him, pain and barely-concealed fear contorting his face, was Leon. In his hand was Gwaine’s sword. Ebony-dark blood dripped from its shaft and point.

“You took... your time...” gurgled Gwaine, before blackness took him.


	2. The Harvest Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

Leon stooped over the mangled heap of bloody bones and feathers; the remnants of some livestock slaughtered by something other than human hands. This was the third farmstead he had visited that morning - it seemed like they had all been hit within an hour or two of each other during the night. The destruction was complete; every living creature outside the farmhouse had been savaged - some eaten, others simply torn apart.  
  
He traced his fingers over four deep gouges in the wood of the coop. Even with his gloved hand spread wide, he could barely follow the scratches’ course. He had seen these marks before; both at the other two farms and previously. Indeed, if he did not know better, he would say they could only belong to the dyrwülf he and the other’s had slain but four short weeks ago.  
  
The nervous farmer coughed beside him. Leon stood.  
  
“So, Ser; do you have any ideas?” the man asked.  
  
 _None that dare be spoken._ “A fox,” Leon said.  
  
The man raised his eyebrow. “I’ve tended these lands nigh on thirty years, I’ve known _foxes,_ Ser. And foxes do naught to explain _these_...” The man indicated the scratches.  
  
“Done with a fork. A clumsy farmhand, no doubt.”  
  
“My boys know better’an to scrawp good tools on wood,” the man stated bitterly.  
  
“Well, that is the only explanation I can give,” replied Leon.  
  
The man sniffed. He leaned closer. “You don’t think it could have been _sorcery,_ do you?” he whispered.  
  
Leon shook his head. “What would a sorcerer want with all this pointless destruction?” he asked.  
  
“Well, you know what these druids are like. It was probably one of their crazy festivals or love feasts. The sooner they all come over to the new ways, the better for all of us.”  
  
Leon grunted. He passed the man a small pouch of gold. “This should cover the cost of replacement livestock.”  
  
“And what’s to stop whatever or _whoever_ did it coming back and doing it again?”  
  
“The Knights of Camelot patrol these forests: if there is anything can be done to prevent a reoccurrence, it shall be done.”  
  
“That’ll have to do, I suppose,” the man huffed. He hefted the purse. “You know, I don’t think I mentioned the sheep pen I had around the back. Five fine white rams, it was. All gone.”  
  
“Killed?” Leon asked.  
  
“ _Gone_ , Ser. I couldn’t show you a trace of them if I wished to.”  
  
Leon hid his scowl. It would be improper to show resentment at the transparent profiteering of this low-born man. He took five gold pieces from his own money pouch. “Take this in compensation for your loss,” he said.  
  
The man smiled and pocketed the gold. “Thank you, my Lord Knight,” he said smarmily.  
  
Leon took his leave and returned to Percival who was holding their horses in tether. “Same?” asked Percival.  
  
“Same,” Leon confirmed.  
  
“Sorcery?”  
  
Leon mounted his horse. “It cannot be ruled out.”  
  
“And the alternative?” Percival took to his own steed.  
  
“There could be more than one dyrwülf.”  
  
“That wouldn’t be good,” Percival remarked.  
  
“No,” agreed Leon. “We lost too many fine men to the last beast.”  
  
Percival nodded. It was never easy to lose a friend and, over the last few years, he had sent too many to the flames. “Come on,” he said, spurring his horse. “Arthur will want to know what we’ve seen here.”  
  
****  
  
Gwaine stretched and scratched his belly. His good hand- the one that _hadn’t_ provided a midnight snack for a dyrwülf - dipped lower, under the sheets. He sucked in his stomach in order to give it room to pass beneath his breeches. He opened his eyes. He patted around the area in question. He released his breath, finding it unnecessary.  
  
He was not wearing breeches.  
  
Gwaine frowned as he scratched the part of himself he wasn’t expecting to find quite as easily accessible as it was. Left to his own discretion, Gwaine _would_ sleep naked. However, the other knights with whom he barracked had a few things to say to him wandering about with his ceremonial pike on display. In addition, Camelot being the place it was, one could never tell when the alarm bells would go off in the middle of the night. Gwaine had found out, the hard way, that it is somewhat challenging to fight an army of the undead with your attributes bobbing about all over the place. Thus, Gwaine wore breeches to bed. Except, apparently, for last night.  
  
The room in the barracks put aside for the more senior knights was empty. Gwaine threw back the covers. He stood and gave himself another good stretching. His hamstrings were tight, as if he had run miles. Certainly, he had had some strange dreams. He smacked his lips together. His mouth tasted, oddly enough, like chicken. Gwaine spotted something on the floor. He bent to recover it: a gored feather.  
  
“Woah there!” came an exclamation from behind him. Gwaine jumped up, still clutching the feather, and turned.  
  
“Not better!” exclaimed Leon.  
  
Percival had his arm flung across his face. “My eyes,” he moaned.  
  
Gwaine tugged the sheet from his bed and wrapped it about his midriff. “Mornin’ boys,” he greeted cheerfully.  
  
Leon rolled his eyes. He threw his belt and scabbard on the bed. “Afternoon, more like,” he said. “I know your arm still hasn’t yet fully healed, but you could at least make the effort to attend briefings.”  
  
“What time is it?” Gwaine asked.  
  
“Some quarter past noon,” Percival replied.  
  
Gwaine whistled. “Was I drunk last night?” he said.  
  
“If you have to ask, the answer is probably yes,” Leon remarked. His eyes trailed over Gwaine’s still bare-chest. The bruises of their encounter with the dyrwülf had faded, but Gwaine still sported a bandaged wrist, the bite marks proving resistant to being healed. “Do you think you might put something a little more substantial than that on?” he requested.  
  
Gwaine busied himself getting dressed. His arm ached as he pulled his boots on. He winced. Leon frowned. Gwaine covered his discomfort with a smile. “So, what’ve you two choir boys been up to this morning?” he asked.  
  
“We’ve been investigating some attacks on smallholdings just outside the castle walls.”  
  
“Attacks?” Gwaine asked.  
  
“Well, raids of a sort. The livestock of all three farms had been destroyed.”  
  
Gwaine pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Tell me more about it,” he said.  
  
“You would know more, if you had come to the council meeting,” Leon chided.  
  
“Just tell me,” Gwaine said firmly.  
  
Leon and Percival glanced between each other, unfamiliar with the seriousness in Gwaine’s tones.  
  
“Well, the first was that little mill just by the south wall,” Percival said. “They kept a few pigs and a milking cow. They awoke to find them dead.”  
  
“How?” Gwaine asked quietly.  
  
“Their, uh, throats. They appeared to have been the victims of some type of large animal.”  
  
“And the second?” Gwaine pressed.  
  
“Much the same. Two goats and an ass.”  
  
“The third?” Gwaine’s voice was tight and tense.  
  
“It was chickens, mostly,” Percival said.  
  
“The owner claimed sheep, but I have my doubts,” added Leon.  
  
“And where was it?”  
  
“No-where special,” Leon said. “Just a small farm, past the river.”  
  
“Near Henwr Rock,” Percival clarified. “With the...”  
  
“Mill just behind,” Gwaine concluded.  
  
“You know it?” Leon asked.  
  
Gwaine shook his head. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, lads, but I think we’ve got a problem.”  
  
****  
  
“All of it?”  
  
“All.”  
  
“Exactly as I described?” said Leon. His face was incredulous.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Percival frowned. “Gwaine, if this is a joke it isn’t very funny.”  
  
“The last farm,” Gwaine said, “had ivy growing up the front of the house. The chicken coops were on the right and stained green...”  
  
“You could have ridden past it any time and seen that.”  
  
“And did you notice anything unusual about the coop?”  
  
Leon scowled. “Well, there were four scratches on the wood. Big, deep ones.”  
  
Gwaine stretched out his arms. Under the nails of the uninjured hand were splinters of dark green wood.  
  
Leon swallowed noisily. He looked at Gwaine with suspicion-hooded eyes. “I think we need Gaius,” he said.  
  
****  
  
There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Gaius shouted. Leon poked his head through the door. “Ah, Leon,” Gaius smiled. “How’re you today?”  
  
Leon nudged the door open a little wider and entered Gaius’s apothecary. He was followed by Gwaine and finally Percival, whose attention seemed entirely committed to the middle man.  
  
They stopped in a line before him. Camelot’s finest. There wasn’t a one of them that Gaius hadn’t had to mollycoddle at one time or another. For allegedly fearsome knights, who had born their share of life-threatening injuries, it was funny how an unexpectedly long ride or one too many ales in the tavern could reduce them to whining infants.  
  
He looked them up and down. “Is there something I can help you with?”  
  
“We, um...” Leon began. “That is to say, Gwaine...”  
  
“I think I...” Gwaine interrupted.  
  
“We think something odd has happened to Gwaine,” concluded Percival.  
  
“Well, I’m sure it has at one time or another,” Gaius remarked, “but you’re going to need to elaborate if I’m to help you.”  
  
“I had a dream...” Gwaine began.  
  
“Gwaine, we’ve discussed your dreams before. They are merely a figment of an overactive imagination fuelled by your tendency to consume far too much cheese.”  
  
“Can cheese explain a dream becoming reality?” Gwaine countered.  
  
Gaius set his mouth into a hard line. “What do you mean?”  
  
Leon spoke up. “Before we continue, can I ask: is Merlin around?”  
  
“He is tending to Arthur.” Over the last few months, there were whispers that the definition of ‘tending’ had altered somewhat, but respect maintained its usage over more intimate language.  
  
“Very well,” said Leon. “It began when Percival and I were sent to investigate three attacks that had been reported this morning...”  
  
****  
  
Gaius listened to their report with sombre concern, his rheumy eyes all the while moving from face to face. He saw no indication of lies in their manners or actions and, in any case, there seemed no point to it being fabricated. Indeed, what the three knights were reporting between them was worrisome at the least. He was also glad they had asked whether Merlin was present or not. Such a tale would not do to be reported in its unsubstantiated form to Arthur. Merlin might feel obliged to relay it to the King and Gaius would not like to guess how his Lord might interpret it, nor what action he might take.  
  
“So... what do you think?” said Gwaine once the full story was relayed.  
  
Gaius frowned. “I would think little of it if it, were it not for this.” He took Gwaine’s injured arm and slowly unbound it. The wound beneath was still raw, but showed no sign of visible infection. “I would have expected an injury like this to have healed further by now. I have been growing anxious about its progress for the last week and, with this tale, I may have an explanation. I pray that I am wrong, but...”  
  
“What is it, Gaius?” Gwaine asked. His face was ashen. Even the other knights seemed conscious of his nervousness, as Leon put a hand to his shoulder and squeezed supportively.  
  
Gaius got up and moved to his shelves. He rummaged through them until he found a small, ruby vial amongst the number. He returned to the table and unstoppered it. “Give me your arm,” he instructed. Hesitantly, Gwaine put his arm onto the table.  
  
“This may be uncomfortable,” Gaius warned. He dripped three small drops onto the wound. Where the potion met the broken skin, ghostly wafts of steam evaporated with a sound that was most akin to a howl. Gwaine jerked his arm back, water-pricks of discomfort visible in his eyes.  
  
Gaius had hoped to be proved incorrect in his guess, but the test revealed only one possible conclusion. “I’m sorry, Gwaine,” he said. “It is lycanthropia, the wolfing disease. Those under its curse are condemned to transfigure into a dyrwülf every full moon. Last night was the Harvest moon, the first since your encounter a month before.”  
  
Leon was on his feet. “Tell us what we must do,” he said grandly.  
  
Gaius could not look any of them in the eye. For all his faults and foibles, Gwaine was one of the most energetic, enthusiastic and indomitably cheerful people he had ever known.  
  
“There are only two things I know of that can release you from this curse, Gwaine,” he said sadly. “The first is a preparation of the purified blood of the dyrwülf you were infected by.”  
  
“But we burned the beast’s body when we brought it back to Camelot,” said Leon.  
  
“And the second option?” asked Gwaine quietly.  
  
“Your death,” Gaius replied.  
  
****  
  
“It isn’t so bad,” said Gwaine. After an afternoon of almost unprecedented silence, the three of them sat around the table in the barracks consumed by their own thoughts and grief, it seemed a ridiculous thing to say.  
  
Leon swallowed. He looked up. His eyes were a tell-tale pink in the corners. “Gwaine,” he said softly.  
  
“It’s only one night a month,” Gwaine replied. “All we have to do is stick me in the dungeon ‘til daybreak, maybe chuck a steak in with me...”  
  
“I can’t believe you’re joking about this,” Leon snapped.  
  
Percival frowned thoughtfully. “He’s right though,” he said.  
  
“Thank you, Perci,” said Gwaine.  
  
“And what about Arthur?” asked Leon.  
  
Gwaine shrugged. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”  
  
“There is a lot about this plan I don’t like,” Leon stated.  
  
“Well, look, I’m not going to lie, this isn’t quite how I saw my future but can you think of a better solution?”  
  
Leon looked away. “No,” he conceded.  
  
“Right then. Now, let’s stop moping about and get to our duties,” Gwaine said with a clap of his hands. “The ale at the tavern won’t drink itself.”  
  



	3. The Hunter’s Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

“Are you sure about this?” said Leon. They had dismissed the guards from the cells before securing Gwaine inside one.

“Sure?” replied Gwaine. “Well, not exactly sure. I’m going to turn into a wolf. There’re quite a few things I’m not sure about.”

“Like what?” said Percival. He looked over his shoulder, his eye caught by movement behind him - it was their shadows on the wall.

“Well, like whether I’ll be able to lick my own balls now.”

“As opposed to before?” asked Leon incredulously.

“Don’t pretend you’ve never tried.”

Leon shook his head, a slow blush creeping into his cheeks.

Gwaine stretched himself out on the narrow cot. “We should’ve brought a mattress down,” he grumbled. “All this sackcloth is bad for my skin.”

“We didn’t want to raise any suspicions,” Leon said.

Gwaine sighed. “How long until sunset?” he asked.

“Less than half an hour,” Percival provided.

“Time for you two to get out of here, then.”

“You don’t want us to stay?” Leon asked.

“To do what? Ruffle me behind my ears?” Gwaine jested. He turned on the crib so that his back was bared to the others. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Percival clapped a silent arm around Leon’s back and led him from the cells. As the stairs spiralled away from the dungeon, Leon looked back. Gwaine had stood again, facing the small, barred window. The long, red light spilled around him, silhouetting him.

Leon had never seen him look so small.

****

The warning bells rang out across Camelot. Leon was straight to his feet. He had not been able to sleep. The image of Gwaine, abandoned and alone, haunted him. He grasped his sword. One of the more junior soldiers burst into the barracks.

“Sers, there is a disturbance in the lower town.”

“What kind of disturbance?” demanded Leon. His grip on his sword hilt tightened.

“The commoners say... they claim...”

“Spit it out!”

“They say it is a wolf, Ser Knight, but of no natural kind. Some of the Northern tribesmen have called it Fenrir, the wolf who comes at the end of days.”

Leon looked to Percival, who was strapping himself into his mail and armour. Their eyes met. Percival nodded.

“We will investigate,” said Leon. “I want all the other knights up here at the castle, protecting the King.”

“Yes Ser,” the soldier agreed.

****

The lower town and markets were in disarray. Spilled carts and upended wagons were strewn about as if tossed by an invisible wave. Leon and Percival picked their way through the destruction. It seemed to be drawing to a focus on one of the storehouses of the market district; an unassuming building that leaned against a meadery. It was where the townsfolk kept the cured meats for the upcoming winter.

Clouds passed across the bare face of the moon. Leon pushed at the door to the storehouse. It creaked on a single hinge. Deep claw marks had torn the wood.

“I think this is the place,” Leon said.

“Do you think he’s still inside?” Percival asked.

Leon shrugged. “Gwaine!” he hissed. They pressed inside. The smell of the smoked meats cloyed thickly in the air.

The inside of the storehouse was dark, only broken by thin wreaths of moonlight slipping through the shuttered windows. A hulking shape huddled in one corner; a deepened blackness amid the shadows.

“Gwaine?” Leon repeated.

The creature raised its head. It was like the dyrwülf, yet smaller; only the size of a man crouched on all fours. It could have been mistaken for a true wolf, were it not for its gangly, over-long hind legs. Despite its relatively modest size, those same amber eyes flashed furiously through the darkness. It was devouring a salted carcass. It growled at them over it, its teeth bared milky white. When they came no closer it returned its attention to its meal.

“It’s definitely Gwaine,” Percival assessed. “He does that at feasts as well,”

Silently, they split apart and circled to either side of the creature. Leon drew his sword, the steel singing against the inside of the scabbard. The wolf’s head snapped up. It splayed its paws, the fur on its back bristling.

“Don’t be afraid,” Leon said quietly, reassuringly, “we aren’t going to hurt you.”

The wolf pounced. In the same instant, Percival leapt as well, barrelling between Leon and the beast. The wolf swatted him into a heap.

“Percival!” Leon cried. He raised his sword defensively. He didn’t want to strike this creature - not knowing that beneath its fur and fangs beat the heart of a fellow knight - but nor would he allow harm to come to Percival.

The wolf prowled back and forth, facing Leon down, matching his every move but not advancing. They danced this dance; man and beast. Leon stared into those brilliant, terrifying eyes and he couldn’t help but feel awed. There was a consciousness there, or cunning at the least; a faint flicker of what might be recognition. Slowly, Leon lowered his weapon. The wolf came forward. Its every movement projected fearsome power. Were Leon to stretch out his hand now, he could practically touch the creature’s muzzle...

The door to the storehouse burst asunder and ten of the more junior knights poured inside. The wolf turned from Leon. It howled at the men and launched itself at them. They scattered like so much straw in the breeze and the beast tore past them, through the broken door and out into the night, lolloping on the legs that seemed too long to suit its gait.

“What are you doing?” demanded Leon. “I told you to stay in the castle and protect Arthur!”

“You are our commander,” answered one of the knights.

“And he is your King!” Leon’s voice bellowed. He was breathing heavily, shaking furiously.

He crossed to Percival and squatted beside him. He lifted the larger man into a sitting position. Percival’s eyes fluttered open. “Gwaine will pay for that,” he grumbled.

“Are you injured?” Leon asked.

“Just winded,” Percival replied. Leon patted his shoulder. He stood and offered Percival his hand. The big man took it with his typical, and unexpected, gentleness, and allowed Leon to help him to his feet.

“Spread out and cover the town,” Leon commanded of the other knights. “If you see the creature, you are not to approach it, but defend the people if it should threaten them.”

The knights jogged from storehouse. Their cries bled into the night.

“Do you think they will find him?” Percival asked.

Leon shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Or rather, I hope not. Both this time and the last time Gwaine changed he had the opportunity to go after people, but stuck to farm animals or other meat. If they do not attack him, I believe he will ignore them.” He chewed his lip. “I don’t think he wishes to hurt us,” he concluded.

“Speak for yourself,” Percival grumbled, rubbing the portion of his chest that the wolf’s paw had connected with.

“Come, we must get you to Gaius,” Leon said. “There is little more we can do here. Only the sunrise can help Gwaine.”

****

“You say you think the beast knew you?” Gaius said. He dabbed a tincture on the battered skin of Percival’s flank.

“Um, it seemed to recognise me at least... it had the opportunity to attack me and didn’t.”

“Interesting...” Gaius mused. He pottered about his chambers. Leon’s eyes flickered to Merlin’s door. “He is with Arthur,” Gaius said to the unasked question. “You may speak freely.”

Leon sighed. “I’m... I’m not sure but... I think the beast remembered me. When I looked into its eyes, it was as if Gwaine was in there, in part. You could see intelligence in its gaze.”

“You very rarely even get that with Gwaine himself,” Percival added. He winced as he lowered his tunic over his ribs.

“And he was smaller than the beast that infected him? You’re sure of that?”

“The dyrwülf that bit him was at least three times his size overall, I should say.” Leon glanced at Percival who nodded.

“Then that is curious,” said Gaius, “All of my books indicate that the transformation should be like for alike. That is how the curse is passed along.”

“Perhaps Gwaine is fighting the transformation?” Leon asked.

“Perhaps...” said Gaius. He returned to the knights with a pot of poultice for Percival and a book under his arm. “How did he escape the dungeons?” he asked.

“We checked that before we came here,” said Percival. “He had dug his way beneath the stones and out of the cell. No man could have lifted those flags but...”

“Gwaine is not currently a man,” Gaius concluded. He opened the book where both Percival and Leon could see. A representation of the wolf had been drawn in black and illuminated in silver leaf. Its maw foamed and dripped red. Its back was muscled beyond the kind of any natural wolf. “This is what Gwaine should have become,” Gaius said, tapping the page with his finger. “It is the dyrwülf, the most fearsome of all the creatures of the moon.”

“But Gwaine isn’t anything like as big as that.”

“No,” Gaius agreed. “And you could be right. The shreds of Gwaine’s humanity could be preserving him. Seeing you may have awoken those feelings, and prevented him from reacting as if a wild animal.”

“But why me and not Percival?” Leon asked.

Gaius averted his eyes. He closed the book. “Well, there is a possibility but... it is a delicate matter.”

Leon frowned. Percival looked at him. “Tell us,” Leon said.

“The wolf is a creature of enchantment, a curse laid in ages past upon a man who committed terrible acts of barbarism against his own people. They called him Wülf because he wore their skins and preferred to slay his enemies with his bare teeth rather than with a weapon. The Druidic Council issued the punishment so that the man who acted as a beast would have to live as such. They did not know that the curse could be transmitted, nor that some people would... give themselves willingly to it. The wickedness of hearts such as those was what allowed its transmission.”

“But Gwaine didn’t give himself _willingly_ ,” Leon countered. His stomach tightened indignantly at thought.

“No,” agreed Gaius, “And I suspect it is the kindness of his heart which is tempering the infection. Such goodness would react in kind. The infection seeks to join wicked with wicked and pure with... pure.”

“And Leon is purer than I am?” Percival asked, a little piqued scowl pinching his brow.

“Of mind perhaps no, but... of body...”

Leon’s cheeks had become ruddy. His eyes darted from those of his companions.

“Am I right?” pressed Gaius.

“You... are right,” Leon said quietly.

“I’m lost,” said Percival.

Leon lifted his head. “Gaius is saying that the beast... Gwaine... can sense that I have never... um... _lain_ with another.”

“Really?” Percival gawped.

“I don’t see why that is such a surprise,” Leon sniffed. “I joined the army when I was barely more than a boy. I have fought for my King and this land ever since. As the youngest of my household, I could inherit no lands or title; the women folk are hardly likely to clamour for me.”

“Courtship isn’t about wealth, Leon...”

“There has not been time,” Leon said.

“There’s always time for _that,_ ” Percival countered. “You’re a good looking man, there is no reason...”

“Regardless of Leon’s appeal...” Gaius interrupted, “If he and the beast recognise each other, this gives us a way to keep Gwaine from doing more damage in future months. Your hearts are of a kind and that allows you to influence his behaviour. He will _need_ you, Leon.”

Leon pressed his lips together. His chest ached with the truth of it; somehow he had felt that bond from the moment he looked into the wolf’s eyes. Beside him, Percival yawned.

“I don’t know about you,” he said. “But what I need right now is my bed.”

“It is the tincture,” Gaius said. “You will sleep soundly tonight. Come, Leon; help Percival back to your room. The night is nearly over and there has been no indication that any ill has come to Gwaine.”

Leon nodded dutifully. He helped the larger man to his feet, taking his weight as Percival stumbled tiredly against him. He led him to the barracks and helped him to bed. Without removing anything but the rigid plate, Leon climbed onto his own bed. He could not sleep; Gaius’s words and The-wolf-that-was-Gwaine’s eyes would not allow it. He closed his eyes. He could hear Percival snoring softly.

He could not sleep; he would not sleep.

Not until he knew Gwaine was safe.

****

Leon jerked bodily awake. Or he would if he didn’t have two very dead legs. A constriction of guilt flashed through him. He had not meant to fall asleep. Not with Gwaine out there, in danger from their own men. He tried to move his legs again. He couldn’t. He lent on his elbow and looked down the length of the bed.

There, at Leon’s feet - _on his feet_ \- was Gwaine. He was, in no uncertain terms, entirely naked.

“Gwaine!” Leon cried. He wasn’t sure which he felt more: relief at Gwaine’s safe return or embarrassment that there was a bare-balled man sprawled out on his bed.

Gwaine yawned. He wriggled. His eyes came open. “Ah, bugger,” he assessed astutely. He lifted his gaze. “Mornin’ Leon,” he greeted. He seemed not in the least abashed to find himself in such a compromising position.

“Um, hello,” Leon replied. “Look... I don’t mean to be rude but...”

“Oh, yeah,” said Gwaine, He stretched again and rolled out of bed. He landed on the floor on his hands and knees, between Leon’s bed and Percival’s. Percival opened his eyes and met Gwaine’s stare.

“You’re back,” he said, examining Gwaine’s pose. “Aren’t you?”

Gwaine glanced at his hands, bearing the bulk of his weight. For the first time, he looked faintly uncomfortable. He stood, dusting himself off.

“Gwaine!” Percival grumbled, covering his head with his pillow. “I am glad you’ve returned but please can you get that out of my face.”

“You know, you lads would be much better off if you learned to relax a little. It isn’t like I’ve got something you haven’t. Here we are, all feller’s together...”

“Except when you’re a wolf,” Percival pointed out from beneath his pillow.

“Except when I’m a wolf,” Gwaine agreed. “But come on; what secrets can there be between the three of us after all this time.”

Percival lifted the pillow a little way. “I know one,” he said.

“Percival...” Leon cautioned.

“What is it?” Gwaine asked eagerly.

“Put some drawers on and I will tell you,” said Percival.

****

“You’re _what_?!” Gwaine exclaimed. He had, after much coaxing, dressed himself.

“As the driven snow,” Percival grinned.

Leon shifted uncomfortably. Somehow, he had become the centre of attention. He was not quite sure how that had happened. After all, it was Gwaine who had spent last night prowling the town in lupine form. He was also the one who had steeled back into the castle just before dawn and accommodated himself upon Leon’s bed. Why Leon’s bed? Apparently because it was the closest to the door. And what adventures had he had that night? Well, they didn’t bloody know because they were too busy taking the St. Michal out of Leon being a virgin.

Leon pushed his annoyance aside. Gwaine had been talking at almost a hundred leagues a minute since his return. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that it was only _almost_. In those brief seconds in between japes and mockery; Leon thought he saw something in Gwaine’s eyes that had never been there before. Loneliness. Leon suddenly realised that he had not told Gwaine how glad he was to see him safe. There had not been time: he could have hardly clapped Gwaine in his arms while he was undressed and, from the point that Gwaine was decent, Percival had been too busy relaying the parts of their tale Gwaine did not know.

Gwaine said something that Leon missed, leaving his reverie in time to see Percival shake his head and wince as he got to his feet. “This is your fault,” he scolded Gwaine.

“Aye; teach you to go up against the wolfman, won’t it?” Gwaine laughed. Percival took himself in the direction of the latrines, shaking his head. Leon’s eyes flickered to Gwaine, unaware that he was being watched. Again, those features held in such high mirth suddenly slumped, the smile melting to a small grimace. He seemed older; tired.

Leon busied himself tidying the bowls of milked oats they had consumed for breakfast. He noted that Gwaine’s was barely touched. “Perhaps you should stay here and get some rest today,” he said quietly.

“Are you saying you think I’m unfit to serve?” Gwaine asked. He said it lightly but there was hurt behind the words.

“No, but you have been through quite an ordeal,” Leon replied quickly. “Next time, you should think about taking your leave for a day afterwards so as not to wear yourself out.”

“Next time...” echoed Gwaine hollowly. He lifted pained, grey-green eyes to meet Leon’s. “Next time you must not let me hurt anyone.”

“Percival was not badly injured,” Leon soothed. He felt moved to add some physical reassurance to his words. He put his hand to Gwaine’s shoulder.

“Promise me,” Gwaine whispered. The unexpected pleading in his voice made Leon’s chest ache.

“I swear,” Leon vowed.

 


	4. Frost's Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

The knights had prepared more thoroughly this time. Leon had cleared the dirty hay and sacking from one of the deep cells. He and Percival had swept the floor and checked the flags. They had smuggled a mattress down from the barracks, no small feat and one that would leave the quartermaster scratching his head for some time to come.

Gwaine had made sure that this cell had chains.

No light made it as far as the deep dungeons. Here, in times long past, Uther had kept the most dangerous of sorcerers: the necromancers and enchanters. None of the cells were in use any more; Leon had hoped never to see them used again. They were a place of shadows, of terror in the dark. The voices of the dead still echoed on the wind.

The small sconce on the wall guttered for a moment. Heavy feet clomped on the stairs. Percival appeared, he had gone to collect the last of the supplies: a bag of butcher’s cuts to satisfy the beast.

“It’s nearly time,” he told his comrades.

Gwaine nodded. He crossed wordlessly to the mattress, pushed up against the back wall of the cell, and sat on it.

Leon moved to his side. He took Gwaine’s wrists - first the good and then the bad, still bandaged and raw - and fastened them into the manacles as gently as he could.

“Admit it, you’ve always wanted to tie me up,” quipped Gwaine darkly, loud enough only for the two of them to hear.

Leon startled. The low, intimate voice Gwaine used beggared misinterpretation. He felt his cheeks go hot. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said.

“You have always seen me as an imposter,” Gwaine explained.

Leon’s hands faltered on the latches. Gwaine smiled lopsidedly, yet it did nothing to dispel the grimness of his expression. “Don’t forget the collar,” he advised.

Leon nodded. He brought the iron restraint around Gwaine’s neck. It was loose now but, when he transformed, Leon suspected its bite would be as savage as the wolf’s own. It clicked shut.

Leon stood. “It’s done,” he said.

Gwaine shifted. He tried to pull on his binds, testing them. Finally he sat back, sufficed. He looked at the other two knights. “G’on then,” he said. “Get yourselves gone. Raise one at the tavern for me.”

“No tavern for me tonight,” said Percival. “I’m on watch.”

Leon said nothing.

They closed the cell door behind Gwaine. Leon secured it and took the key. “Go on ahead,” he told Percival. “It would do you no favours to keep Ser Garius waiting for you. I just want to double check the locks.”

Percival grunted. Garius, while technically now their subordinate, was an old and trusted knight who had had lost an eye at the Battle of Athanden. Unable to remain in active duty himself, he had begged to be kept in some form of service rather than retired to his lands. He had been given the position of Commander of the Watch, an honorific, but one that he had made his own over the last fifteen years. It was his responsibility to allocate the watches at dawn and dusk. If there was a sure way to find yourself patrolling the tanner’s quarter, it was to turn up late for your duty.

Leon watched Percival leave, making a show of checking the lock and each of the bars. An idea that had been clouding his mind for the last twenty-nine days began to take form.

“Worried, Leon?” Gwaine called.

Leon hesitated. The bundle of keys at his waist weighed heavily. He unhooked them and hefted them in his hand. He glanced back down the corridor to the door Percival had left ajar for him. He walked towards it.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” shouted Gwaine after him.

Leon closed the door, sealing him and Gwaine inside. He returned to Gwaine’s cell. He unlocked it.

“Um... Leon,” Gwaine said. “An unlocked door is less secure than a locked one, you know.”

Leon entered the cell. He sealed himself inside. “You told me I was to ensure you hurt no-one by this moon,” he said. “How can I be sure of my duty unless I stay here with you?”

“Leon, this isn’t the time for flashy heroics. It’s nearly sunset. If you stay here, I might hurt _you._ ”

“You won’t,” Leon said confidently.

“These chains have never been tested to withstand the force of an animal.”

“ _You_ will not hurt me,” Leon repeated.

Gwaine’s bold gaze flickered. “I don’t... I don’t want you to see me like this,” he admitted.

“I have seen much worse with you after a night of drinking,” Leon replied.

Gwaine laughed a short, sharp laugh. “Well done, Leon, you made your first joke. Did it hurt?”

Leon sat himself on the cold hard ground, out of reach of Gwaine’s bonds. Committed to his path as he might be, he was not above caution.

“It won’t be long now,” said Gwaine quietly. Leon followed his eyes, he was staring up at the blank wall, staring past the tonnes of soil that stretched between them and the sky.

“How do you know?” Leon asked in an awed whisper.

“I can feel it as it comes. It’s like... fire. It is in my blood.” Gwaine grunted. He jerked against the chains. “By the Gods, Leon. It... burns.” He trembled. The trembling became convulsions. Leon leapt to his feet. “Stay back!” Gwaine cried. The words bore the brands of agony.

A sickening sound of wrenched sinew and bone echoed through the dungeon. The skin on Gwaine’s body seemed to rise up and engulf his clothing, swallowing it. Hair sprang from it, as if seeded from the cotton. Gwaine twisted and fought; his face blackened, his teeth lengthened, and suddenly where once was a nose and mouth there was only muzzle. He snarled and then howled. Leon felt the hairs on his neck rise. There was no longer anything human in the noise.

Gwaine was gone, the wolf had arrived.

It turned its copper eyes on Leon and growled a deep, dangerous noise of senseless rage. It launched itself forward. Leon put his hand to his sword. Here, in the cell, there would be no escape - no option should it break free but to slay the wolf or be slain by it. The irons securing its paws screeched as they took the strain. The collar rattled but held. Together, they pulled the beast back. It yelped and tried once more, to the same effect. And again. The wolf clambered to its feet for a third time, shaking its head as if clearing it. Its eyes narrowed, almost thoughtfully, as it studied the unobtainable man before it.

Leon’s grip on his sword hilt loosened. His palm was slick with sweat. “You know me, don’t you?” he asked shakily. “Gwaine?”

The wolf growled.

“Good, um, wolfy-wolf,” Leon soothed nervously. He shuffled around the perimeter of the cell until he reached the sack of meat they had left for it. Cautiously, Leon reached out his foot and hooked it around the meat. He pulled the sack closer, his heart pounding in his head, knowing that it brought his flesh within the wolf’s reach. The sack left a bloody streak on the floor. The wolf sniffed. It lolled on its long, powerful hind legs towards Leon, more carefully than it had before. At the streak it bent and sniffed again. It began to lap at the stones with its rough tongue.

“Oh, not the floor, Gwaine,” Leon grumbled. He put his hand inside the sack, feeling the cold, slimy slick of raw meat against his fingers. He pulled out a chunk - a chicken leg. He tossed it to the wolf; the beast catching it in mid air and chewing on it, the bone cracking between its big teeth. It swallowed the morsel in three chomps and then looked up at Leon hopefully.

“Well, there’s no question that you _are_ Gwaine,” Leon said, fishing for a further hunk of meat. “He would never suffice himself with one leg either.”

****

“ _Her feet were as tiny_  
as Spring’s first rose bud  
And her hands bore the promise  
that ‘enough’ was enough,” sang Leon.

The wolf tipped back its head and howled.

“Gwaine loves singing Mollith the Fair,” Leon grumbled. “Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “that is your singing. In which case, it’s actually an improvement.”

The wolf whined and tipped its head.

It was somewhere between one and two of the morn: Leon’s internal chronograph provided him with that knowledge. He was tired and the song had helped stave off the fatigue. It was strange; Leon would always forgo joining in the bawdy when Gwaine and the others raised their voices to it. Singing - or indeed speaking - in the company of others was something that Leon had always found hard. Being the youngest in a family of four boys meant that opening his mouth generally meant being teased or ridiculed. Growing up, he passed more words with the servants than he did with his siblings. And it was little better now he was a man. He could _command_ now, but just... talk? Well, there was Gwaine to do that for you. And Arthur who’s right it was to do it for you. And Percival who rarely spoke either but when he did it seemed to be far more impressive - probably something related to his arms. Leon just never got a look in.

The wolf had reacted quite differently to Leon’s voice. It _listened_. When Leon spoke, it ceased snarling and baying and trying to bite through its binds. It plopped itself on its haunches and allowed Leon to speak. Perhaps it was as Gaius said, that his... state provided him a unique bond with the beast. Or maybe it was that the man inside the wolf responded to language, that it reminded him of what he was. Part of Leon hoped that the wolf listened because it wanted to; even that _Gwaine_ wanted to.

The wolf let out a yelp and a snarl. Leon realised he had fallen silent as he thought. It whined and licked its muzzle.

“Sorry, Gwaine, we’re all out of sausages,” Leon said.

The wolf whined again. Leon held the empty sack out at arm’s length. “Look,” he said. “All gone.”

Suddenly, the wolf bounded forward. It snapped at the sack with its teeth. The irons jangled as it pulled against them. It caught the bag in its teeth and tried to snatch it. The shock that Leon had allowed himself to come within its range - that on some level he had forgotten that he sat with a dangerous beast rather than a household pet - made Leon tighten his grip. The man and wolf warred for a few seconds with the sack. Then the wolf eased its assault; Leon attempted to withdraw the sack, at which point the wolf pulled again. It growled through bared teeth and shook its head. Leon tugged and the wolf snarled louder.

“This is a game to you, isn’t it?” Leon asked.

The wolf pulled furiously. Leon scrabbled to his knees to stop being dragged bodily onto the mattress. He summoned up all of his might to pull on the sack.

The wolf chose that moment to let go of the sack. Leon fell back on his rump with a definitive thump.

“Ow,” he said. “You did that on purpose!” he accused, glowering at the wolf. Never had Leon seen a beast adopt such a studied expression of innocence. Something dark matted its fur at the neck. During their sport, it appeared that the collar had chafed the animal’s neck. Leon felt guilt encircle his chest and squeeze.

“You’re hurt,” he said softly. He got to his knees. He held his hand forward, bringing him within the boundaries of the wolf’s domain. “Let me help,” he said.

The wolf growled deep in its throat. Leon shuffled forward, holding his hand before him as a sign of peace. Their eyes were joined; fear and wonder played between them. Leon reached out to the animal. His fingers brushed its coarse, wiry hair. Tentatively, he unfettered the collar, it clattered as it fell from the beast’s neck.

Leon skittered back, out of reach. He was sweating. At any time the wolf could have turned on him, tore out his throat and feasted on his flesh. But it didn’t, something stopped it. Perhaps it only reacted to Leon’s tone of voice, or it held the kind of animal astuteness that decided when to hold back its bite for its own gain. Neither felt true to Leon. The wolf allowed him near because it _knew_ he would not harm him. It was a noble creature. It whined and settled on the mattress, cocking its head at Leon.

“You said earlier,” Leon began to the silent prompt, “that I don’t think you worthy of being a knight of Camelot.” The wolf dipped its head, an action so close to an embarrassed nod that it made Leon frown in thought. “I _never_ thought of you as such. A pain in the backside at times...” He smiled grimly. “But if I ever gave you.. _. Gwaine_ , I mean, that idea, then I am sorry.”

The wolf made a small, whuffed whimper.

Leon licked his lips. “Sometimes,” he said quietly, “I think _I_ am the unworthy one. After all, you, Percival...” He swallowed. “Lancelot, Elyan; you all fought your way to be here. What did I do? Be born of a Lord who died in a hunting accident. I never even wanted to be a knight.”

He leaned his head back against the cold stone wall, unwilling to meet those unblinking amber eyes. He sighed.

“You have proven your bravery time and again, shown yourself to be a man of courage and honour and... I am proud to call you friend.”

The wolf made a strange growl; a breathy low rumble. Leon looked back to it. It had fallen asleep.

Leon chuckled. “It is probably for the best,” he said to himself.

 

****

Leon stirred at the first growl. Through long years of service, he had learned to stand tirelessly when danger pressed and to preserve his strength when it did not. A level of knowledge beyond his consciousness had decided that he was safe, here, with the wolf.

Another whine rent the air. Leon looked to the wolf. It was still asleep, sprawled across the mattress. Was it dreaming? Leon wondered what a wolf would dream of. The wolf’s limbs trembled. It twisted. Its eyes snapped open.

It howled. Its breathed turned to steam in the cold, damp cell.

Flesh and sinew began to twist; muscles writhing and cartilage popping. The howl became a scream: a terrible, agonised scream. It was worse even than when man became beast. Leon had heard that cry on many hunts - a primal knowledge of impending doom. To hear that howl become a man’s voice, raw with pain, stripped Leon to his soul.

The beast’s fur became ashen and brittle, crumbling from the pale skin beneath. Stunted fingers stretched out to Leon, neither paw nor hand.

For the first time in his adult life, Leon wanted to run away. He knew he could not. He wanted to hide, but there was no shelter from the terrible power of this thing that was occurring. He did the only thing he could do. He closed his eyes. His heart raged in his ears.

“ _Leon_.” It was Gwaine. His voice seemed tiny, a broken thing.

Leon opened his eyes. Gwaine stood on the mattress. He looked haggard, his eyes grey and hollow. He was naked and shivering.

It was not the time for embarrassment or modesty. Leon strode to Gwaine, still chained as he was. Blood crusted on his neck where the collar had cut into him. He embraced him, bringing Gwaine’s body to his, sharing his warmth. He wrapped them together in his cloak. Gwaine allowed himself to be held. The sheer fact of this alone near tore Leon’s heart in two. Beneath the veil of scarlet, he rubbed his companion’s frozen arms. He felt Gwaine relax slightly against him, his ragged breath steadying.

“By the Gods, Gwaine,” Leon swore. “I didn’t know.

“It is not... not your fault,” Gwaine replied thickly.

Tears swelled in Leon’s eyes. “How can you bear it?” he asked. The words stuck in his throat.

Gwaine stared at him for a long, painful moment. “What other choice do I have?” he asked at last.

Leon could not offer a reply. He pulled Gwaine’s head in to rest in the hollow of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  



	5. The Long Night's Moon - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come. Seeing yourself in the decisions of others can be as unsettling as it is a comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.
> 
> Enter the Merthur!

  
The villagers and townsfolk were busy preparing their Yuletide celebrations, gathering supplies of meat, grain and ale for the mid-winter feast ahead. The castle was bustling as well, although the arrangements were somewhat more lavish and the name of the festival was carefully avoided. It would not do for the Lords of the land to celebrate a night of the Old Ways, but neither did many of them truly wish to give them up their traditions in favour of the new. Garlands of holly and its berries hung around frames and mantles, wreaths of ivy were pinned to every door. Laughter echoed through the halls of the Castle of Camelot, no doubt as young suitors found their resolutions beneath the mistletoe. The faint tinkle of cheery voices could be heard in echoing in all the rooms, even in the council chambers.

The Knights of the Round Table were neither feasting nor laughing. There was duty to attend to. For Leon, and the others, duty had to come before celebration.

“There have been attacks on the outlying villages,” Amain - a young, fierce knight from an old but impoverished family - reported. “The raiders grow bolder, Sire. As your borders expand they think you cannot protect all your subjects.”

“Then they think wrong,” Arthur assured.

“But the Knights are already stretched thin and if we send many more guards into the wilds the garrison here at Camelot would be sorely depleted,” countered Ser Olan. “You must think what is most strategically wise.”

“I will not let my people suffer for the greed of a few men,” Arthur countered sharply.

Merlin leaned past him, refilling Arthur’s goblet of wine. As he did, he nudged Arthur’s shoulder with his arm. Arthur took his cup, as if to steady it. The fingers of the King and his manservant brushed. The sternness in Arthur’s features wavered. A small flush crept into Merlin’s cheeks.

The argument continued but Leon heard it only as background noise. Arthur was right, of course. They could not allow the village folk to suffer in favour of those of privilege. It was well known that Olan’s family had large investments in the granaries within the city’s walls. While Camelot’s knights were the best in the land, even among them honour was not an equal thing. As the others chunnered and disagreed with one another, Leon studied his Lord. He saw the little looks, the unnecessary touches; he felt the longing between Arthur and Merlin. While it had become obvious that the two had grown far closer than a master and his servant, or even past that of friends, it was not generally acknowledged that there was - or ever could be - more to it than that.

Some of the knights had pulled a map of the kingdom out and spread it across the table. They were debating furiously over what land should and should not be sacrificed. Merlin took his place at Arthur’s side. A stray hand glanced on Arthur’s flank. A faint smile tugged at Merlin’s mouth, his lips held a promise for when doors were closed and latches lowered. Leon saw their eyes lock. There was something in that gaze, something ancient and potent beyond measure. Leon felt himself grow hot as it arced between them. He shifted uncomfortably. It was at times like this that Leon’s own status as a bachelor pressed in on him. He ached to hold another in his arms and yet it so often seemed elusive; a thing meant for others.

Suddenly, Arthur slammed his hand down on the stone dais. “I will hear no more dissent,” he roared. “We will position a knight in every township from here to the Western hills. Guards will be posted in their twos at mile intervals. If a village is attacked, they are to light a beacon and relay the fire until it arrives here in Camelot. That way, we will not have to wait weeks to hear of such attacks, but will know within a matter of hours. It will be much easier to track these raiders to their hideout when their trail has not been obscured by the passage of every peasant in the place.”

“My Lord,” Olan grudgingly acknowledged.

“Percival,” said Arthur, turning his attention to the man in question. “I want you to lead the men out. You are to make for Fort Igroff with all haste.”

“There is to be a full moon,” Percival said. He glanced nervously at Leon. “We can likely ride after nightfall.”

Arthur nodded. “Do what you must but take no unnecessary risks. Olan is not wrong, there are few enough of us without losing men to unseen danger.”

Percival bowed, taking his leave. He put a hand to Leon’s shoulder.

“I want Leon to stay here, to ensure Camelot remains secure,” Arthur said, misconstruing the action. “I would have asked Gwaine to do so as well, had he been here.” His words, while level, carried the faint twist of disapproval in them.

“Gwaine is... unwell, my Lord,” Leon said.

“Again?” asked Arthur.

“He, uh... Gaius has said it is something that will pass,” lied Leon.

Arthur sighed. “Very well,” he said. “It is not something that can be avoided, I suppose.”

“No, Sire,” Leon agreed.

“You all have your assignments, then,” Arthur concluded. “Any other matters can wait. I want these brigands caught and punished within the month.”

“Aye,” agreed the knights, some more fervently than others.

As Leon made his way for the door, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned. It was Merlin.

“Are you _sure_ Gwaine is alright?” Merlin asked. “Only, he hasn’t seemed himself these last few weeks.”

“He is fine,” Leon answered stiffly.

Merlin frowned. “I wondered if it had anything to do with his arm,” he said. “I noticed it was still bandaged from where he was bitten back in the summer. When I asked Gaius about it, all he would say was that some hurts were easier to cure than others.”

Leon felt a pang of regret, knowing that Gwaine was, in fact, currently preparing his cell for another terrible night in the hands of the curse.

“All will be well,” Leon promised, more certainly than he felt.

Merlin nodded, his eyes strayed over Leon’s shoulder to where Leon knew Arthur to be standing.

“You love him greatly, don’t you?” asked Leon before his brain took stock of the words. He inwardly balked at his own boldness - but Merlin was a friend of many years now, and this made Leon stand firm.

Merlin’s face softened. He smiled a private, cheeky smile, making him look inexplicably youthful for a man of his age and relative concerns. “Yeah,” he admitted. He glanced over his shoulder. “God knows why,” he said with a small chuckle.

“What you do is not against the law,” Leon said. “You don’t need to hide it.”

Merlin’s smile drooped. “Arthur has taken a servant to his bed once before, and look how that turned out,” he confided. “It took years for his heart to mend after what happened with Gwen. I just don’t think he wants people to believe he is fixing it with me.”

“Merlin!” Arthur called from behind.

The cheeky smile re-established itself on Merlin’s face. “Duty calls,” he smirked.

****

The barracks were empty. A full two thirds of Camelot’s garrison had been placed under Percival’s direct command. Leon looked around the side room that he, Percival and Gwaine - as de facto commanders - shared.

At the foot of each bed was a rich garland of holly, fresh and as green as emeralds; its full berries as ruby droplets nestling amongst the leaves. It was well known, and the state of the floor attested to it, that the maids did not come into the part of the castle. It was part of the Knight’s Code that he needed no servants, just a sword and a comrade by his side. Leon had certainly not pinned them up and Percival had not the time to spend on such frivolity, which left only Gwaine - Gwaine who tonight would be tortured by his own body; in the dark, in the cold, and unavoidably alone.

Leon found a small smile had crept onto his face. That Gwaine retained such a desire for life, even through his suffering, both awed him and gave him hope. Gaius still worked in secret to find an alternative cure. Leon had sworn that if there was anything he could do, he would, because he had a duty to protect a fellow knight. But duty no longer factored into it. The respect and admiration he felt for Gwaine, brave beyond any other man he had ever know to bear this burden without pity, cemented this truth. He would die to save Gwaine from this fate, he was certain of that.

“You’re worried for him.”

It was Percival. He had crept into the room to find Leon absorbed in thought at the foot of Gwaine’s bed. For such a large man, he moved as silently as a cat.

“I worry that I can’t be with him.”

Percival tipped his head, a small crease on his brow.

“That I will be needed to guard the town tonight, rather than being at his side,” Leon clarified.

“Ah,” said Percival. “Well, it’s not necessary now. We know that the bonds will hold him.”

That, of course, was beside the point but Leon had agreed, at Gwaine’s request, not to pass the particulars of his transformation along to Percival. The youngest of the knight-commanders did not know the torments his colleague was put to with each full moon. It was a secret between the two of them. Gwaine knew things too, things that Leon had never told another living soul. He had forgotten in part that whatever he said to the wolf was also to Gwaine and that Gwaine would _remember_. These shared intimacies were a new thing to Leon, and he found himself dwelling on them more and more.

“He hurt himself last time,” Leon explained, his tone carefully neutral.

“Well, if he has any sense he will have learned by now.”

Leon was forced to turn away from Percival, so as not to betray the trust between him and Gwaine. He could not hide the anger and hurt on his face. He busied himself laying out fresh clothing for Gwaine, tying it into a parcel to leave within the cells. If he could not be there to warm Gwaine, he would not leave the man naked and chained until he could be freed of duties to release him. He also secured a padded collar, large enough for the wolf’s neck, which could be set as a cushion around the iron restraint. He had had it made in the lower town, away from the prying eyes of the castle, and yet it still raised some uncomfortable questions. There were some of the townsfolk who now looked at him sideways when he went about his rounds.

“Are the men nearly ready to ride?” he asked, his attention still on what he was doing.

“Yes, we will be leaving shortly. I just came to say farewell.”

Leon straightened from his stoop. He turned. Despite his own height, he had to look up to meet Percival’s eyes. He reached out and took the other man’s arm. “Be safe,” he said.

Percival smiled, he tightened his grip on Leon’s own forearm. “And you. _And_ our reprobate wolf.”

Leon nodded. He released Percival’s arm. Percival gave a short bow and took his leave.

****

The cells did not grow any less frightening, regardless of how many times Leon stood inside them. It was as if the souls of all the tormented dead still clung to the place. Every gust of wind that came down the stairs from the guardroom above sounded like a shrill wail. Even with his armour on, Leon shivered.

He found Gwaine in the same cell they had occupied together last month. The mattress had been uncovered from beneath a pile of straw, the chains hung from the wall as menacing reminders of what was to come. Gwaine was busy checking them, twisting his dagger between the links to ensure no weaknesses had been wrought. He was dressed in dark breeches and a loose shrift of deep blue. He bent, posterior to Leon, paying no mind to the man behind him. Leon watched him work for a moment, following the dedicated, precise movements and the deftness with which he wielded the blade in his hand.

Leon’s eyes trailed over Gwaine’s form. He knew they had both changed over the years since their first meeting; eager muscle hardened to sinew and lithe grace to solid determination. Gwaine said that they had matured, like a fine cheese (although he did equate a good many things with cheese). Leon often wondered if they were just getting old. Neither of them had tipped their fortieth anniversary yet but the battles they had fought together had left their scars, although perhaps none so deep as this curse had dealt them. He wasn’t sure when he started to think of the curse as a shared burden, and while he knew he suffered not one tenth of what the other man endured, still his chest ached at the thought of nightfall and his heart - yes, his _heart_ \- went out to Gwaine.

He cleared his throat. Gwaine started, his hand went to his sword. He span, a fierce look on his face. For a moment the wolf gleamed in his eyes.

“It’s only me,” Leon assured.

Gwaine’s face softened. His gaze flickered from Leon’s face, along his body, to the package in his arms. Leon wondered nervously if he was thinking what Leon was thinking himself.

“Is that for me?” Gwaine asked.

“What?” Leon said. He looked down. “Oh, oh yes,” he said. He held the bundle out to Gwaine. “It is clothing... for after.”

Gwaine took the offering. “Thank you.”

“I wondered...” Leon began hesitantly.

Gwaine quirked his eyebrow. “Spit it out,” he said. “Or do you only talk to animals?”

Leon felt his cheeks redden. “Why not remove your clothes beforehand. I saw... what happened. It might make it... easier.”

Gwaine huffed a little laugh. “It might,” he agreed. “But more likely I’ll just spend the night as a _naked_ wolf instead.”

Leon pursed his lips. He nodded brusquely.

Gwaine clapped a friendly hand to his shoulder. “At least let’s wait until the summer to try it,” he said. He squeezed the bundle and frowned. “There’s something else in here.”

Leon worried the inside of his lip. “I had something made for you.”

Gwaine’s frown deepened. He unbound the parcel and pulled out the collar made from padded velvet. He tipped his head and looked from it, to Leon, and back to the collar again.

“It is... to go over the metal,” Leon explained falteringly. “I hoped it would stop you getting injured.”

Gwaine knelt beside the iron neck-brace. He fitted the padding around the metal and cinched it with leather ties. He stood. “It’s a fine thing,” he said.

Leon dipped his head modestly. “It was nothing.”

Gwaine’s smile was small and curiously soft. “No,” he said, “I meant to have a friend such as you.”

He turned away sharply, coughing lightly. Leon shifted uncomfortably. He wondered whether to put his hand to Gwaine’s back. Part of him thought such an action would be too much. Another, quieter, voice told him it would not be enough. At last, Gwaine turned back to him. “Can you stay with me tonight?” he asked.

Leon hesitated and then shook his head. “Arthur has commanded Percival and many of the guards out of Camelot to try and catch these treacherous bastards who are torching the outer villages. I am needed to man the walls.”

“What did his highness say about me?”

Leon shifted his weight. “Your absence was... noted. You’re to join me in protecting the town after...”

“Tonight,” Gwaine concluded in his stead. He sighed and crossed to the mattress. Seating himself upon it, he looked up at Leon. “Do you think you could help me with these things,” he said, tipping his head at the restraints. “I mean, I’ve gotten myself out of cuffs a few times, but never really into them.”

“You have been imprisoned? This was before you arrived in Camelot?” Leon asked.

Gwaine chuckled darkly. “I know you’re innocent, Leon, but surely even you aren’t that naive?”

Leon flushed. “Really, Gwaine, this is hardly the time.” He fastened one of the binds.

“When is it ever the time for those like you and me?” Gwaine asked.

Leon’s hands faltered. His fingers were pressed to the soft skin of the underside of Gwaine’s wrist. He looked up, into Gwaine’s eyes, so close to his own. Gwaine’s gaze was steady and Leon could not meet it for long. He turned his attention back to Gwaine’s restraints. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

The collar snapped into place around Gwaine’s throat. “It _is_ better,” he said.

Leon got to his feet. “I must leave you now,” he said. “I’m already late reporting in.”

“Yeah, and Garius has it in for you anyway, ever since that time...”

“That was an accident!”

“Shaving off a man’s beard in his sleep can hardly be classed an accident.”

“It was an _accident_ that I allowed you to get me drunk and dare me to do so!”

Gwaine laughed. “Ah, they were good times. You, me, Perci, Elyan...” He sobered. “Be careful tonight,” he said.

“I will,” Leon promised. “And you try to get some rest. The dawn will come quicker that way.”

He left Gwaine’s cell, locking it behind himself. The muttering wind whispered to him, the voices echoing the concerns of his mind. Never had Leon been tempted to abandon his duty; but was his promise to Gwaine so much less important that his oath to Camelot? Should he value the livestock and small-holdings of the townsfolk over the needs of his friend? On any other night, he might have had a choice. Tonight he would be left with a town manned by green boys and untried soldiers; if he could not face his responsibility, he could hardly ask them to do the same.

Now was... not the time.


	6. The Long Night's Moon - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come. Seeing yourself in the decisions of others can be as unsettling as it is a comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

The riverside docks were perhaps slightly less fragrant than the tanner’s quarter but no less unpleasant. Technically outside the walls of Camelot, their strategic importance in supplying food to the markets ensured their inclusion in the watch’s patrols. Due to their outlying location, they tended to draw the lowest of men; the drunkards and rogues, pick-pockets and cut-throats. Their plentiful taverns spilled out into the night where a... colourful assortment of such undesirables gathered to drink potent spirits, smoke on long pipes and take what other pleasures came their way.  
  
Leon made his way along the quay, picking his way between the lowlifes and the puddles of congealed fish-guts from the morning’s catch.  
  
“Tip your whistle, soldier?” a wench called from within the shadows. She stepped forward; she was likely as old as his mother.  
  
“I am a Knight of the Round Table,” Leon dismissed.  
  
“Hardly the first time I’ve felt the _prick_ of a knight’s sword,” she persisted bawdily. She strode boldly after Leon, matching his pace. “What brings you to this forgotten path on your own so late at night, ser knight?” she asked.  
  
 _Ser Garius, the old coot_ , Leon thought. “Duty,” he replied. Garius had made quite the show of how - in his day - a knight would not desert his comrades for ‘a sniffle’ (this was of Gwaine) and that as their numbers were to be odd for that night, one of the watch would have to patrol alone (this was directed to Leon). Thus, Leon found himself in the darkest part of Camelot with no-one at his side bar this... lady.  
  
He turned from the wharf onto a poorly-lit side street, hoping the woman would abandon her pursuit. He had made it no more than five paces into the lane before three men blocked his path.  
  
 _“This_ giving you trouble, Morwenna?” the leader asked of the woman.  
  
“Not trouble enough, if you’re asking me,” she replied.  
  
The leader stalked up to Leon. He was a large man, equal to Leon’s height but twice as broad. A long, inky scar ran the length of his face, crisscrossing his features. It rippled as his smiled a dangerous, thin smile. “Something wrong with our fair Morwenna?” he asked. “She not good enough for a high-born like you?”  
  
“I have no quarrel with you or the lady, sir,” Leon said, attempting to keep his voice quiet and reasonable.  
  
The leader laughed rowdily. His companions matched him, sneering all the while at Leon. “You call me sir?” the leader howled. “Do I look like a _sir_ to you, Godwuld?”  
  
“You look more like a thief to me, Osgar,” the one called Godwuld replied.  
  
“Maybe he just doesn’t like womenfolk?” the third of the party piped up. “You know what they say about these nobles. It's told even the King prefers to _bring up the rear_.”  
  
“Half a gold piece and he can ‘ave me any which way he likes,” Morwenna claimed. “You should know that well enough Yorghen.”  
  
The other men laughed. Godwuld shoved his companion with rough jocularity.  
  
“So,” drawled Osgar. He moved closer to Leon, his presence radiating threat. “You heard Morwenna: half a sovereign to have your way with her or _five_ to be on your way with us.”  
  
“It is not permitted for a knight to carry coin whilst on patrol,” Leon explained. “I cannot give either of you what you wish.” He shrugged, trying to uncloak his sword without drawing attention to the action.  
  
Osgar sighed. “Well,” he said quietly. “That _is_ disappointing.” He stepped aside. “On you go then.”  
  
Leon frowned. He stepped cautiously past this Osgar; towards the remaining two men.  
  
“Now!” the leader roared. In that instant he aimed a blow at the back of Leon’s head that sent the knight reeling. As he stumbled, the wench snatched his sword from its scabbard.  
  
“Man’s not much of a man without ‘is weapon, ‘is ‘e?” she shouted lewdly. The bandits closed in on Leon. He swung his arms wildly, his vision still blurred from the first hit. One of them caught his wrist, twisted it above his head. Further blows winded him; he fell to his knees. There was nought Leon could do against such odds. He was alone and any cry he made would not be heard, at least not by any who would heed it. He squeezed his eyes shut. There would be no escape and no rescue. There was no _hope_. He knew the names of all of those who assailed him - there was no way they would let him live to report them.  
  
****  
  
The wolf was dreaming. It had fed plentifully on the meat that it found within this stony hollow and, although it did not like the metal snakes that bit its forelegs, they could be tolerated.  
  
The dream was a strange thing. In it, the wolf did not run on four legs but walked upon two. It had not fur, but scratchy coverings made of wool and metal. It did not like those. The man was there; the man with the grave face and the kind eyes. It told the wolf to sleep, that the dawn would come more swiftly if it did so. The wolf did not understand ‘the dawn’. Did the man mean the fire in the sky? The fire that brought the burning? Why would the man wish that it came sooner?  
  
The wolf growled in his sleep. The dream changed, grew darker. The man was still there but different. It was as if the wolf was seeing through his eyes. And there was pain, shadowy figures. Hands, feet. The wolf tasted blood on the man’s tongue.  
  
Its eyes snapped open. The vision stayed. The man was hurt, unaided; the wolf knew it. It snarled and surged against its binds. The man was good to the wolf. He gave it food, he had not injured it when he had the opportunity to. He _cared_ for the wolf. Again, the wolf tore at its bonds. If it could break free, it could help the man. The wolf wanted to do this. In the vision in its mind, there was cruel hard laughter followed only by silence.  
  
The wolf yelped. It would not allow the man to die. It could not free itself like this but there was something else tugging at its awareness now; the knowledge of a way to escape. It allowed the vision to slip, the bond between it and the man to sever. The dreams of walking and talking fell away. Rage consumed it, blackening out all but animal fury. The wolf’s flesh rippled. It grew; fangs lengthening, the muscles in its back swelling to huge knots of raw power, its long hind legs grew stockier even as they stretched to bear the greater size of the wolf’s frame. What became was neither man nor wolf; it was purely dyrwülf.  
  
The dyrwülf hauled against its restraints. The metal creaked. Mortar fell from the walls where the bolts held the two together. It pulled harder; the two chains around its legs severed, only the collar still held fast. With a final, giant surge, the dyrwülf leapt forward; the collar burst asunder. The metal bars of the cage could not resist such force flung upon them; the strength of this creature was beyond the craft of man. It was beyond nature. It was a thing of magic.  
  
The beast howled with an ancient, terrible voice and thundered from the dungeons in search of its prey.  
  
****  
  
  
“Check his boots,” Osgar demanded.  
  
Godwuld de-shoed the unconscious knight, tipping each boot up in turn. “Nothing,” he growled.  
  
Osgar glowered at Morwenna. “Of all the damn soldiers you could have found us, you had to pick an honest one.”  
  
“’ow was I supposed to know he was as poor as a sparra’?” she grumbled.  
  
“Let’s just stick ‘im and ‘ave done,” Yorghen said. He drew his dagger. Dim in the deep night, there came a scream.  
  
Yorghen’s head snapped up. “What was that?”  
  
Godwuld shrugged. “Probably just a one of the wenches,” he said.  
  
“No woman worth her salt lets out a cry like that,” Morwenna replied. Another shriek, closer, rent the night. The warning bells began to peel.  
  
“The watch,” Osgar said. He began to back away. “Leave him,” he said.  
  
“But what if he remembers our names or faces,” Yorghen said.  
  
“Then we will go to jail for the beating. We will _hang_ if the watch finds us over his body.” Osgar turned, preparing to flee.  
  
The dyrwülf broke into the side street. Its jaw hung thick with foaming slaver and its wild eyes promised death to any that stood in its way.  
  
“By the seven hells!” Osgar yelled. “What _is_ that thing?” Godwuld and Yorghen drew their daggers. Osgar took up Leon’s sword. They advanced on the beast.  
  
Ten of the best of Camelot’s knights had barely stood to the dyrwülf, the three bandits held no chance against it. Steam and sweat and terrified cries filled the air; one by one they were silenced. The dyrwülf turned on Morwenna, huddled back into the doorway of a locked shack. “Please,” she begged. “I didn’t know they meant to kill him.”  
  
Behind them, Leon groaned. The dyrwülf turned from the woman. It shivered and sniffed around the man’s body. It licked his face. Leon groaned again. With a whimper, the dyrwülf’s claws sheathed and shrank. Its unnatural girth and power was replaced by the wolf. It staggered with the transformation. The woman took her chance to gather her skirts and flee. “Monster!” she yelled. “Monster!”  
  
The wolf pawed Leon’s chest. It licked his hand and nestled its muzzle in his palm. It could feel the man again inside his mind, barely clinging to awareness.  
  
Torchlight flooded the lane. Guards drawn from across Camelot descended on it. They held pikes and swords, axes, daggers and maces. Crowded into the space, the wolf growled.  
  
“It has injured Ser Leon!” one of the guards cried.  
  
“There are more bodies, here!” called another.  
  
As many as could fit at the fore of the phalanx pressed in on the wolf. They levelled their weapons on it.  
  
“No...” gurgled Leon. “Halt.”  
  
The man ceased their advance.  
  
The wolf sprang backwards. It turned tail and bolted from the lane, leaving the guards behind it.  
  
Ser Amain fell to his knees at Leon’s side. He pressed his ear to Leon’s mouth. “He lives, barely,” he said, straightening. “We must get him to the court physician.”  
  
****  
  
  
“Put him there,” Gaius commanded as the guards carried Leon between them into the chambers. The guards deposited him gently on Gaius’s cot. He examined his patient carefully, peeling away strips of torn linen and mangled metal. “It will be a long night,” he said. “But if he makes it to the morning, he will recover.”  
  
Leon reached up weakly, his eyes fever-bright. “Gwaine,” he said. “The wolf... saved me.”  
  
“Shh...” hushed Gaius, lowering Leon’s hand to his side. He said it both to preserve his patient’s strength and as a caution. He looked up at the other guards. “Leave us,” he said. “I need space to work.”  
  
****  
  
Leon’s eyes fluttered as the first, faint rays of dawn flitted through Gaius’s window.  
  
“Is Gwaine alright?” he croaked.  
  
Gaius, sat by his bedside, lifted his head from his chest. “Leon,” he sighed with relief.  
  
“Gwaine,” Leon pressed weakly.  
  
Gaius patted his hand. “I don’t know,” he said. “All of my attention has had to be on you this night.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Leon wheezed, struggling to raise himself. He failed and sank back to the bed.  
  
“You have four broken ribs, a concussion. You are lucky that the attackers did not fracture your skull.”  
  
The door to Gaius’s apothecary burst open. Gwaine skidded inside. “Is he alive?!” he demanded.  
  
“He lives,” Gaius said, seeming untroubled by Gwaine’s state of undress. “Come.”  
  
Gwaine hurried to Leon’s sickbed. Leon blinked up at him, he attempted to smile; found that it hurt to do so and winced. Gaius placed a woollen blanket around Gwaine’s bare shoulders. Gwaine crouched by his friend side. He stroked a curl from Leon’s forehead. His hands trembled.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  
  
“If it wasn’t for you, I would be dead,” Leon answered in kind.  
  
Gaius cleared his throat and moved discreetly away.  
  
Gwaine’s voice was thick. “If it was not for me, this would never have happened to you. You would not have had to go on patrol alone.”  
  
“Let’s just...” Leon broke to cough, pain lanced through him as he did, “call it even,” he said.  
  
Gwaine’s breath caught in his throat. He blustered and spluttered with surprise.  
  
“Please... don’t make me laugh,” Leon gasped. “It hurts.”  
  
Gwaine pressed his lips together into a firm line. Relief and mirth still turned up the corners of his mouth. He nodded. His eyes were grey and tired.  
  
“Get some sleep, Gwaine,” Leon advised. “I will still be here when you awake.”  
  
Gwaine glanced to Gaius, who nodded. “I’ll be back to check on you later,” he promised. He tried to pass the sheet back to Gaius.  
  
“I think you would do better to keep it,” Gaius advised. “Running around the castle naked is likely to bring a few unwelcome questions.”  
  
Gwaine’s cheeks rouged. “Good point,” he said.  
  
****  
  
It took two days before Gaius had proclaimed Leon out of danger. Once he had, they transferred him to the barracks. Gwaine said he would be more comfortable in his own bed and Gaius had consented on the understanding that Gwaine come and get him if there was any downturn in Leon’s condition.  
  
“How’re you feeling?” Gwaine asked. He had just returned from training, his hair stuck to the sweat-salt drying on his brow.  
  
Leon pulled himself onto the pillows mounted behind him. “Better,” he said. He winced. “A little.”  
  
Gwaine stripped off his muddy apparel. He stretched stiffly. “Some of those younger fellers pack a fair wallop,” he assessed.  
  
“Once upon a time, those younger fellows were us,” Leon replied.  
  
Gwaine grinned. He poured some water into a bowl and dipped a cloth into it, He washed his face and hands. Cleansed, he decanted some more water into a fresh bowl and dropped several splashes of Gaius’s healing tincture into it. He carried it to Leon’s side.  
  
“It’s time we attended to your bruises,” he said.  
  
“Really,” Leon replied, “You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“Yes, I do,” Gwaine answered solemnly. “Now lift your arms.” He lifted Leon’s loose shrift over his head. The raw, purpling welt of Leon’s injuries stood out on the pale skin of his chest.  
  
Gwaine dabbed a cloth into the water. He sat on the edge of Leon’s bed and pressed it gently to the lowest of the bruises. Leon hissed.  
  
“Sorry,” said Gwaine.  
  
“Not your doing,” Leon replied.  
  
“We found the woman who witnessed your robbery.” Gwaine continued to bathe the wounds as he spoke.  
  
“Who assisted in it,” Leon corrected.  
  
Gwaine nodded. He moved up Leon’s chest. “She confessed to her complicity, and told me of the monster that killed the men.”  
  
“You mean the wolf?” Leon asked.  
  
Gwaine’s eyes left his. “There are... blanks in my memory for that night. Every other time, I can remember everything the wolf did. It is hazy, like a dream, but complete. I don’t remember killing them. One minute I was in the cell the next... by your side.”  
  
Leon caught Gwaine’s wrist. “What did she say?” he asked.  
  
Gwaine lifted his chin. He stared into Leon’s eyes. He licked his lips. “She said that the beast was twice the height of any of the men, near as long as a horse and broad as an oxen. She said it had teeth like daggers and eyes that burned like flames.”  
  
“The dyrwülf?” Leon whispered urgently.  
  
Gwaine hesitated and then nodded his head. “I think so.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Gwaine finished salving the last of Leon’s ribs; the one that lay directly over his heart. He splayed his fingers, the damp rag trapped between Leon’s skin and his palm but his fingertips infusing warmth where they touched. “I couldn’t let you die,” he said softly.  
  
Leon put a hand to his shoulder. The stretch ached, he moved so that he was touching Gwaine’s neck instead. “Gwaine... I....”  
  
Their lips found each other. It silenced all words. Gwaine slid further onto the bed. Their bodies sought the position they both needed. The kiss deepened. Leon hissed.  
  
Gwaine pulled back. “I didn’t mean to... I uh... this wasn’t...”  
  
“My lip,” Leon explained. “The cut.”  
  
“Oh,” exclaimed Gwaine. “Oh!” An expression of bemused delight grew on his face. He leant in and kissed Leon again; slower, gentler. It was long before they broke for air.  
  
“There is absolutely no way you’re a virgin,” Gwaine said, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.  
  
Leon chuckled. “I said I had never lain with anyone, not that I’m a eunuch,” he replied.  
  
Gwaine’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Oh aye?” he said. He turned his attention on the bedding separating them below Leon’s waist. “You think you are capable?”  
  
Leon groaned quietly. “Capable perhaps,” he conceded, “but, Gwaine, we can’t.”  
  
Gwaine’s gaze was far more serious than Leon had ever seen it. It held the same look of hunger that the wolf’s did when it wanted feeding. Leon didn’t think that some chicken would suffice here. He ran his fingers through Gwaine’s hair, combing out the tangles. “I have to stay pure, remember?” he said. “If it is truly our bond that keeps you from transforming fully into the dyrwülf each full moon then we can’t risk it, even for something we both want.”  
  
Gwaine’s eyebrows did a dance on his brow. “So you _do_ want me?” he asked. Leon stared at him. “Oh, alright,” Gwaine agreed. He stood. “Damn it, Leon,” he said. “Why couldn’t you be Percival?”  
  
Leon frowned. “Percival?” he said suspiciously. “Why Percival?”  
  
“Well, then _this_ wouldn’t be so hard, would it?”  
  
Leon’s eyes trailed over Gwaine. Gwaine cleared his throat and turned away. He took the bowls of washing water to the window and emptied them.  
  
“How do you think Percival is doing?” Leon called to his companion.  
  
“Perci will not stop until he finds the brigands,” Gwaine replied. “That man will surprise us all one day.”  
  
“They say it’s always the quiet ones,” Leon agreed.  
  
A slow smile spread across Gwaine’s face. “They do at that,” he smirked.


	7. The Wolf Moon - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come. Love and duty become increasingly difficult to manage, and those choices - choices that not just a knight has to make - will become the greatest test anyone can face. Seeing yourself in the decisions of others can be as unsettling as it is a comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

“Tell them what you told me,” Arthur commanded.  
  
The scout turned to the hastily assembled council. Many of the knights had been roused from their beds. Leon and Gwaine had been raised from a single bed where they had been... maintaining Leon’s purity. Just.  
  
“The bandits have been traced to an encampment in the Forest of Acestir. Ser Percival has begun amassing troops upon Carreg Wastad but that the brigand’s army is unexpectedly large. He requests that the remaining knights ride out and join him before the assault begins.”  
  
Gwaine leaned in to Leon’s side. “That’s our Perci,” he whispered. He squeezed Leon’s knee beneath the round table and left his hand there. Leon found it extremely difficult to keep his gaze steady upon his King.  
  
Arthur leaned upon the table. “Then we shall go,” he said decisively. “Leon, Gwaine...”  
  
The two men sprang apart. “Sire,” Leon said.  
  
“You will gather all of the knights and meet me in the courtyard at dawn.”  
  
 _“All_ of the knights?” Gwaine asked.  
  
“The guard can man Camelot for a few days,” Arthur assured. “Unless... Leon, are you fit enough to travel? I had forgotten you were still healing.”  
  
“I’m ready, my Lord,” Leon answered. Nervously, he looked at Gwaine. It had been twenty five days since that first kiss. The moon grew fuller in the sky with each passing night. “But... perhaps Gwaine should be left here, to command the watch?”  
  
“We have Garius for that,” Arthur replied. His tone was final. “Come on Merlin, we must prepare for our departure.” There was never any question that Merlin would accompany them and the fierce pride on the face of the other man suggested that he would have one or two things to say about it should anyone ever try. He moved to Arthur’s side, their knuckles brushes as they stood together. Merlin looked ready to defend his lord - his _love_ \- from anything. Leon knew the feeling. “Dismissed,” said Arthur.  
  
****  
  
There was not time for Leon and Gwaine to talk before leaving Camelot. There were knights to gather, stable hands to rouse, bedding rolls to prepare, favoured weapons to select. Riding out into the dewy day, the knights wound a single line along the lowland path beside the river, towards Acestir. As the road widened, they clustered more. Gwaine rode to be at Leon’s side.  
  
“How’re you holding up?” he asked.  
  
“It’s not too bad on the even ground.” The horse jogged, Leon flinched. “Damn shame that Camelot’s main crop this year seems to be stones.”  
  
“You do realise you’re starting to sound like me?” Gwaine mocked.  
  
“Yeah, well, you were bound to rub off on me sooner or later.”  
  
Gwaine gave him the eye. Leon flushed. “And what about you?” he asked more quietly.  
  
Gwaine shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it, is there?” he said.  
  
“Hold!” The shout came down the line. Gwaine and Leon made their way through the reined horsemen to the front of the host and Arthur.  
  
“What is it Sire?” Leon asked.  
  
Before them, rising out of the plane, stood a hill. One side sloped smoothly, the other was a broken crag. “Skirrid Fawr,” said Arthur. “We will camp in its shadow tonight and take the pass over the hills tomorrow. We should come to Carreg Wastad from the east and out of view of the valley of Acestir.”  
  
Leon nodded. “A wise suggestion, my Lord.”  
  
“But...”  
  
“But what?” Leon asked.  
  
“If my many years listening to Merlin speak out have taught me anything, it’s to know a ‘but’ when I hear one.”  
  
Leon looked over the King’s shoulder to his manservant. Merlin shrugged. “But,” Leon continued. “The passes over these mountains can be treacherous and the peaks are white. Would it not be better to turn south and come to the flat rise through the vale?”  
  
“That will add an extra day to our journey,” Arthur replied.  
  
“And if we find snow in the passes, it will take an extra _week_ ,” Leon answered.  
  
Arthur frowned thoughtfully. “You have a point,” he admitted at last. “We shall do as you suggest, Leon.”  
  
Arthur spurred his horse and made for the hill, the sun just beginning to set behind it and casting long shadows across the land.  
  
Gwaine and Leon allowed the bulk of the hoard to pass before encouraging their own horses to movement.  
  
“So... snow,” Gwaine said.  
  
“Snow can be as deadly as any enemy,” Leon replied.  
  
“And you and I both know that the pass through Caemleth isn’t high enough to be blocked by snow,” countered Gwaine. “So now tell me the real reason.”  
  
Leon’s eyes dropped to the rocky ground. “In the passes, there will be no cover, nowhere to hide... when the moon comes. You would be exposed.”  
  
“And every day we delay the chances that the brigands will discover Percival and the others increases.”  
  
Leon looked up, abashed.  
  
“I know you did what you did to help, and I am grateful for that, but please, Leon, never put other people in danger for me.”  
  
“Gwaine, I can’t... I can’t make that promise.”  
  
“Then I have made a mistake,” Gwaine said. “If what is between us makes you choose my life over another’s, then it must stop.”  
  
Leon blanched. “Gwaine,” he pleaded.  
  
Gwaine turned his horse and joined the line. Leon watched him ride away. Finally, he spurred his horse and brought up the rear of the company. Even as part of this host of men, he had never felt so alone in his life.  
  
****  
  
Leon sat away from the flames that night. The sparse woodland seemed to be the hiding place of shadow things, flitting between the trees between puddles of moonlight. Leon stroked his whetstone over the length of his sword in slow, regular swipes. The motion helped to calm his mind. Gwaine was right. Putting one man before many - and friends at that - was not right. They could have found a way, even in the passes: some dark hole in which to pass the night. Tomorrow would bring the full moon after Yule - the Wolf Moon, the townsfolk called it. They said it was by that moon that the great wolf Fenrir would come and eat Woden; who was as a King to all of the Old Gods, at the end of days.  
  
A twig cracked and a bush rustled behind Leon. He grasped his sword. “Show yourself,” he growled.  
  
“I know you’re angry, sunshine, but running me through is probably an over-reaction.” Gwaine stepped from within the thicket.  
  
Leon drove his sword into the cold ground. He grunted. “It’s you,” he said.  
  
Gwaine patted himself all over and then sat down beside Leon. “Last time I checked,” he said. He played with a scrap of loose leather on his boot.  
  
“Did you have something to say?” Leon huffed at last.  
  
“I wanted to tell you... that I was wrong,” replied Gwaine softly. “And that I’m sorry.”  
  
Leon’s stomach tightened. He remained silent.  
  
“You were thinking of me, and I can’t fault you for that,” Gwaine continued. “It’s just that I feel so... helpless with this thing. There is so much I cannot control. The moon. The wolf. The sunrise.” He sighed. “How I feel for you.” Slowly, carefully, he took Leon’s hand in his. Leon looked from it, their calloused fingers tangled together, to Gwaine’s face.  
  
“Lie with me tonight,” Gwaine said.  
  
“Gwaine, we... can’t.”  
  
“The others will never know. They will think we are part of the watch.”  
  
“I’m not _ashamed_ of this, Gwaine,” Leon promised. “I have heard you swear, you hold to the old Gods as much as I do. They did not separate the forms of love as does the new.”  
  
“Then why?”  
  
“Because if we do there will be nothing left to keep the dyrwülf at bay. There could be no hiding the beast.”  
  
“There is no hiding it either way, now,” said Gwaine.  
  
Leon shook his head. “That’s not true,” he said. “You could go on in front or... stay behind.”  
  
“You’d have me run away,” said Gwaine grimly. “I can’t do that. Perhaps hiding this has gone on long enough.”  
  
“If Arthur sees you, he will kill you.”  
  
“Then perhaps that would be best.”  
  
The absolute resignation in Gwaine’s voice splintered like ice through Leon’s chest. He reached up and stroked his companion’s cheek. Gwaine turned his head inward, burying his nose into Leon’s bare palm. He kissed the skin.  
  
“I can’t think of this anymore,” he said quietly, his voice muffled by Leon’s hand. “Whatever is fated for tomorrow will come to pass regardless of what we do tonight. If this is to be my last night, I would spend it with you.”  
  
Leon nodded slowly. He got to his knees. Gwaine matched him. Their mouths met with a familiarity of sensation and an urgency of the situation. Leon tasted both the sweet and the bitter in the kiss.  
  
“Do you know what is to be done between us?” Gwaine asked breathily.  
  
Leon shook his head. Although he had some idea, he had never considered it in the fullness of detail. “But I trust you,” he said.  
  
****  
  
They rested together afterwards as a tangle of limbs and sated skin. Armour and clothing was puddled around them. It was no mean feat to undress a man in full regalia but the trappings of knighthood was something they both knew well. The only thing they retained was one of their heavy, red cloaks drawn over them as a blanket.  
  
Gwaine nestled under the curve of Leon’s arm. His long dark hair mingled with Leon’s curls of burnished gold. Absently Leon found himself tracing the line of Gwaine’s neck and the silver chain around it.  
  
“The symbol of my house, back when it was a house,” Gwaine explained. “A crescent moon.” He huffed out a small laugh. “Where did your family come from, Leon?” he asked.  
  
Leon found his voice buried deep in his chest. He rumbled to raise it from its slumber. “We were from Gaul originally. A Roman family took my many-times-great grandfather and his family as slaves during the conquest and brought them to Britain. When the Romans abandoned these isles, they just... left my family here. We had a house and lands and... here we stayed.” He rolled onto his side, careful not to dislodge his companion. “Leon means ‘lion’, you know,” he said.  
  
“The lion and the wolf,” Gwaine grinned. “Now that’d make for an excellent sigil.”  
  
“And what about your history?” Leon asked, feeling his cheeks burn.  
  
Gwaine shrugged.” My family has held its title since the earliest times. It can be traced back to the court of Cartimandua and before. My father died before I was born and, as he had no living heirs, the King stripped my mother of all our lands and threw her onto the streets. I was born in a room above a tavern three months later.”  
  
“That’s awful,” Leon said sadly. “Caerleon was a vicious, spiteful man.”  
  
“Until I met Arthur, I thought that was all nobility was,” Gwaine replied. He sat up a little way, enough to allow him to unfasten the chain around his neck. He slid the golden ring he habitually wore from off it and held it in his palm. “This was my father’s,” he said. “It was the only thing that was returned to my mother after he died, and the only thing I ever had of either of them.” He joined his and Leon’s hand, pressing the metal between them. “I want you to have it,” he said.  
  
“Gwaine, I couldn’t possibly...”  
  
“Do you know that, by the old ways, a union done beneath the stars was as binding as one completed by a priest? They did not need a book to read over the couple, just the promise of two people taken in good faith.”  
  
Leon nodded solemnly.  
  
“Then take it,” Gwaine said.  
  
Leon accepted the gift as it was intended. He took a leather lace and tied it around his neck; it hung long, upon his breast. He shivered.  
  
“We should dress,” Gwaine said. “It would do us no favours to become ill before the battle.”  
  
“Then you think we will make it through tomorrow night?”  
  
Gwaine’s smile was dark, the moonlight casting long shadows under his eyes so his face looked like a death-mask. “Tomorrow _was_ the battle I meant,” he said.


	8. The Wolf Moon - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come. Love and duty become increasingly difficult to manage, and those choices - choices that not just a knight has to make - will become the greatest test anyone can face. Seeing yourself in the decisions of others can be as unsettling as it is a comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

The ride through the vale would have been pleasant, were it not that Leon knew what lay ahead. The fields were just beginning to sprout new life, green shoots pushing up through the brown soil in the sheltered clime of the valley. A few sheep grazed there and a brook meandered over the stones with a voice as low as a murmur. The head of the valley was wooded, the beginning of the great forest - the forest of Acestir - and beyond awaited battle. For Leon and Gwaine, however, the greatest fight would come that night.

Leon cantered his horse to draw level with Gwaine, riding at the far left of the flank. He nodded towards the trees ahead. “If we can make it there before nightfall, I have a thought.”

“And?” asked Gwaine.

Leon patted a coil of rope strung behind his saddle. He had liberated it that afternoon from one of the abandoned farmsteads they had passed.

Gwaine smirked.

“I like the way you think,” he said.

“It’s for the...” Leon dropped his voice to a quiet hiss. “Wolf.”

“What else could it be for?” Gwaine asked cheekily. His smile faded. “Do you think it will be strong enough?” he asked.

“If we lash it tight to one of the oaks, it should be enough.”

“For the wolf.”

“Yes.”

“But not the dyrwülf.”

Leon looked away. “Chains and bars could not hold it. There is no rope strong enough to do what they could not.”

“Scouts!” The cry went up. Leon looked at the mound the calls were directed at. Two lone scouts on foot scrambled across the ridge to their west, leaping between crags like goats.

“Catch them! They must not be allowed to escape!” Leon set his horse in pursuit. Hooves thundered. Every action was pain, but he urged his mount onward. The horses foamed and sweated, the smell of them filled the air. It sparked something primitive in the men; the thrill of the chase, adrenaline thrumming in their veins. Beside him, Gwaine let out a whooped shout for some of the riders to try and circle around the back of the bluff.

While the knights were on horseback, the hunt was not easy. The land did not favour a mounted man and the scouts were swift. As they grew closer to the tree-line, it would only grow harder.

“We will never catch them like this!” panted Gwaine. He reared his horse to a sudden halt and leapt from the saddle, bare sword in hand.

“Gwaine!” Leon cried. He reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. He snatched the rope and threw it over his shoulder, drew his sword and set off after Gwaine.

****

Leon shoved the remaining scout to his knees. The other scout had turned and fought and had been regrettably slain by Leon’s hand. This one continued at break-neck pace through the forest, but Gwaine had run him down.

“Whom do you serve?” Leon demanded.

The scout spat on his boot.

“If you tell us, we will let you live,” Gwaine said. His eyes were bright from the chase.

“So you can torture me?” the man said. “We have all heard the stories about the Knights of Camelot.”

“What stories?” Leon asked.

“That you do not kill your prisoners outright but instead keep them for sport, only letting them die when you tire of them and then feeding their corpses to your dogs.” The man looked up. Leon suddenly realised that what he believed was anger in the man’s eyes was in fact absolute and utter terror.

“Bollocks,” replied Gwaine astutely.

Leon bent down beside the man. He used the same, soft voice as he had with the wolf. “The tales that you have heard are lies, put about by jealous lords to trick you into fighting for them.”

“You _would_ say that,” the man answered. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“I swear to you on my honour that no harm will come to you at our hands. We are just protecting our people.”

Tears fell from the man’s eyes. He was, in truth, barely able to be called a man; little more than a boy. Scouts were often such, picked for their slight stature and swift feet. “Then let me go,” he begged. “I swear I won’t return to the camp. I’ll... go north. I have an uncle in Hawlech, a fisherman. He’ll take me in.”

Leon shook his head. “Until the band is put down, we cannot let you go. Once that is achieved... I guarantee you your freedom.” He held out his hand. The boy hesitated, and then took it. Leon pulled him to his feet. He glanced at the sky. Scarlet fingers of the setting sun weaved across the clouds. He looked at Gwaine.

“We must hurry,” he said. “The others will have set camp by now.”

Gwaine licked his lips, his eyes turned nervously to the heavens. “Let’s move,” he agreed.

****

They set a fair pace through the undergrowth, the scout a few steps ahead of them at all times where he could not escape. The forest was growing darker. Suddenly, beside Leon, Gwaine stumbled. He fell to the ground with a curse.

Leon bounded to his side. The scout stopped and turned, he seemed not to know if it was some trick to make him flee and thus justify his death. Leon put his hand to Gwaine’s back.

“Is he alright?” the scout cried.

Gwaine glanced up to look at Leon. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t go any further. It’s started. I can feel it.”

“What’s he saying?” asked the scout; he sounded afraid. “What’s started?”

“Silence,” Leon commanded. He took Gwaine’s hand. “Just give me another few minutes,” he said.

Gwaine nodded shakily. His fingers dug into the dirt. Leon stood and faced the scout. “My companion has been injured,” he said. He began to move towards the boy who backed away slowly in turn. Leon unslung the rope from his shoulder. “I must bind you,” he said, “So that I can attend to him.” He drew his sword. The young man turned, ready to bolt, but in the dim light he fell on a gnarled tree root.

“I will not hurt you,” said Leon quietly. “I gave you my word.” He used his sword to sever a small stretch of the rope and the re-sheathed it. He held out the rope in unarmed hands. He stooped by the fallen scout. The younger man tried to wriggle away. “Please,” Leon said. His voice bore all of the pain and responsibility of what was to happen to Gwaine that night. The scout stilled, like an acquiesced animal. Leon bound his feet with the shortened cord.

He ran back to Gwaine, who had dragged himself to a nearby tree, the thickest around of any that could be seen. He was trembling, breathing heavily as if by great exertion. The blue-grey shadows haunted the forest and mist gathered around the bracken.

“Not much... time,” Gwaine gasped. His voice was stretched thin by agony.

Leon nodded and began to tie his partner to the tree, circling fat, coarse binds around his chest. It made but three loops before the rope was exhausted.

“Is that... it?” Gwaine panted.

“I had to use the rest for the scout,” Leon replied.

“Will it hold?”

Leon looked at the rope. “It should,” he said. Gwaine stared at him, beyond words. “It might,” he admitted.

“Leon...” Gwaine’s voice was a raspy whisper. Leon bent beside him. “If I...” Gwaine swallowed. “If I escape, if it looks like it will hurt any of the knights, I want you to slay me. I would consider it... a kindness... if it was you who took the blow.”

Tears welled in Leon’s eyes and spilled over his cheeks. He took Gwaine’s arm by the bracer he had taken to wearing over the bandage and kissed him softly. He stood. He could not look back. If he turned back, he would not leave, and Gwaine would not forgive him that. He hurried back to the scout, his sword drawn. Without attempting to be gentle, he sliced the bond and pulled the boy to his feet. “Run,” he said. He heard a snarl in the distance. “Run!”

****

The firelight drew them to the camp like moths coming to a flame. If the scout had any thoughts of escape, they seemed to have abandoned him as he and Leon pelted through the gathering dark. Perhaps he believed that Leon meant him no harm, or maybe he just didn’t know where else to go. It could also have had something to do with the naked steel clasped so hard in Leon’s hand that it hurt.

They collapsed, panting into the clearing. Twenty knights were instantly on their feet, weapons scraping on scabbards as they were drawn. Arthur shoved his way to their fore. “Hold!” he shouted. He moved to the men. “Ser Leon, is that you?” he asked.

“Sire...” Leon gasped.

Arthur sheathed his sword. “Leon, we feared you were lost.”

Leon shook his head. “Gwaine and I... tracked the scouts. One was slain. This is the other.”

“And where is Gwaine?” Arthur asked.

Merlin appeared like magic at his side. “Is he alright?” he pressed.

“Gwaine and I were... separated in the mist, my Lord,” Leon answered to Arthur. Lying like this to his King hurt Leon, almost as much as the thought of Gwaine tied to that tree. He could not meet Merlin’s eyes. The man had a way of knowing what was in your heart and he was fond of Gwaine as well, in his way.

“Gwaine is a capable knight. He will be fine,” Arthur assured, mistaking the upset in Leon’s eyes. Merlin put a hand to Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur slid his own over Merlin’s and squeezed. It was the first open display of affection Leon had ever seen them share.

Arthur moved to the young man. His eyes were wide as saucers and glittered in the firelight. “You are part of the bandit’s army?” he asked.

“I... I didn’t want to be,” stammered the boy. “But they said that, unless we fought, you would...”

“They have been spreading lies about Camelot,” Leon interjected. “Telling the peasants that unless they fight, our armies will do terrible things to them.”

Arthur’s brow hardened. “Know this,” he said to the boy, “The Knights of Camelot have not, nor ever will, turn against a peaceful people. Any one of them would lay down their life for an innocent.”

“For one of the nobility perhaps,” the scout replied boldly. His face fell as Arthur stared at him. “My Lord,” he added reluctantly.

“Noble or commoner, it would make no difference. Many of my knights were _raised_ from the commons.”

The scout’s eyes widened even further. He glanced at Leon for confirmation. “Truly?” he asked.

“In truth,” Leon confirmed.

Arthur clapped him around the shoulder. “Come, you must be hungry,” he said. Leon shook his head. His stomach was so tight he could not have eaten. The wolf - he hoped it was only the wolf - would be out there by now and it didn’t have any food, or a fire to keep it warm.

“I’m hungry,” the scout piped up.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “He sounds like a man after your own heart. Attend to him.”

****

“Here,” said Merlin. He passed the scout a bowl of stew. The boy looked up at him with grateful eyes before beginning to devour the offering.

“You one of the King’s servants, then?” he asked between gulps.

Merlin smiled. “That, amongst other things,” he said.

“He ever beat you?” the young man asked.

“What? No!” said Merlin in horror. “I mean, he’d chuck stuff at me at times but it was always... horseplay.”

The young man shrugged. “My old master used to beat me,” he said. “Told me it was ‘an honour’.”

Merlin settled beside the man, technically a prisoner, but held only by a single strap of leather about his ankle. “Why did you continue to serve him, then?” he asked.

“Didn’t have a choice, did I? I was indentured to him.”

“You were a _slave?_ ”

“Dunno if I’d call it that. One day, some soldiers came and killed him. Stuck his head up on a pole. They said I should join them, that lords would always look down on their servants unless we stood up to them.”

“And you do that by sacking villages and plundering their food and livestock?”

The young man dipped his head, chastised. “I never wanted to do none of that stuff,” he muttered. “I just wanted to get away.”

“What’s your name?” Merlin asked suddenly. The boy looked up, confused.

“Lucan,” he said. “But most people just call me Luke.” Tentatively, he offered Merlin his hand.

Merlin grasped it. “Merlin,” he said. The young man’s grip was firm. He smiled a little.

“Please to meet you, Merlin,” he said. “Well, mostly pleased.” He jiggled his bound leg.

“It will be over soon,” Merlin promised. “And when it is, you will have your freedom.”

“That’s what he said,” Lucan replied, nodding his head towards Leon, sat outside the ring of fire and alone.

“He is an honourable man,” Merlin promised. “If he says you’ll be freed then that will happen.”

“What about the other one?” asked Lucan. “The one that’s missing.”

“Gwaine?” Merlin said. “Gwaine’s the opposite to Leon in every respect but honour. A man could not wish for better friends.”

“They’re your _friends_?” Lucan said incredulously. “With just you, or each other?” he asked.

Merlin frowned. “They have a bond of knighthood and shared experience. They are so different, it’s hard to imagine them as friends but... yes, I’d say they were. In fact, over the last few months I’ve wondered...” Merlin’s voice trailed off. He shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

Lucan looked down into his now-empty bowl. “Nothing,” he said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.”

“Lucan,” said Merlin sharply. “What is it?”

Lucan worried his lip with his teeth. “Your Ser Leon said that we got separated in the fog. That wasn’t what happened. The other feller fell over, and he was making all these noises like he had a bellyache. The two of them went off together but only Leon came back. He had his sword out and he looked like someone had jabbed him one. Then he cuts my ties and yells ‘run!’. So I ran.”

“He told you to run? Why?”

Lucan bunched up his shoulders, closing in on himself defensively. An echo of fear flitted across his face.

“There was a howl,” he whispered, voice tight.

“A howl?” Merlin asked. It made no sense. If Gwaine was injured, there was no way that Leon would flee, regardless of what danger he faced.

In the distance, a terrible howl sounded. It was nothing like Merlin had ever heard, full of the pure lust of blood. The very brutality of it was unnatural, an intractable rage that went beyond bestial hunger.

“Like that one,” Lucan said.

“Knights!” Arthur called. The knights came to his command. Merlin hurried to the King’s side.

“That was no ordinary wolf cry,” Ser Amain said. His eyes shone with both fear and youthful excitement.

“No, it was not,” agreed Arthur. “Spread out in twos. Do not go out of sight of the fire but ensure the perimeter is secure.”

The knights paired up and spilled into the forest. Merlin heard their calls between each other, the sound of steel meeting branches and brush. He saw Leon hesitating, on his own, still within the borders of the camp. He took several steps towards him, before something touched his arm. He looked around. It was Arthur.

“I want you to stay here,” said Arthur softly. “It will be safer.”

“But I might be able to help,” Merlin said. His eyes flickered unbidden to Leon.

Arthur followed his gaze. “Leon!” he called. “Come here.”

Leon obeyed. His face was bloodless and he looked old beyond his years. Even his eyes seemed drained of their colour; of life, and hope.

“I want you to stay and guard Merlin,” Arthur said. “And the prisoner,” he appended hurriedly. “See that no harm comes to either of them.”

“Arthur, he knows,” said Merlin.

Arthur’s lips formed a straight line. “Then you know why I give you this task,” he said to Leon.

Leon nodded and Arthur sprinted into the darkness, his dragon-forged blade glinting in the moonlight.

****

The dyrwülf stalked the forest. There was a black space in its mind that it did not understand. It was like a hunger, and the dyrwülf tried to fill it as such, but the forest was empty of prey. It was a wasteland. The dyrwülf dropped its head, snuffling among the mulched leaves. It caught a scent, prey that walked on two legs. The two-legs reminded it of something. Could it have been a two-legs that left it tied to that tree? If it was, it was a futile gesture. The dyrwülf had simply broken the tree in half to free itself.

There were voices in the air; squawking, chattering, fragile little voices that spilled from frail throats. The dyrwülf drooled. It would feast soon enough.


	9. The Wolf Moon - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a creature from near-forgotten legend begins attacking travellers, it must be dealt with. But the actions of that night have repercussions which are felt for months to come. Love and duty become increasingly difficult to manage, and those choices - choices that not just a knight has to make - will become the greatest test anyone can face. Seeing yourself in the decisions of others can be as unsettling as it is a comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: violence in excess of canon but not graphic, hurt/comfort, angst.

Leon prowled about the clearing. Every fibre of his being was alert. His muscles were stretched so far he feared he might snap.

“Sit down,” Merlin said. “We’re safe. The others are out there.”

“ _I_ should be out there,” Leon muttered. He kicked a tin flagon and sent it skittering across the camp.

“What’s wrong, Leon?” asked Merlin. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Leon span on Merlin, his hand automatically going to his sword. He forced himself to relax. Merlin stared up at him placidly. Merlin’s eyes were a source of inexplicable discomfort to Leon. They seemed to hold wisdom beyond measure, hidden behind a thin veil of outward foolishness. They looked into Leon, into the secret-places and hidden memories. They were ageless, timeless. Leon sometime thought he could see eternity in Merlin’s gaze.

“I just feel so... helpless,” he whispered.

“Leon, you are probably the most capable man I know,” Merlin attempted to assure.

“There are some things no man can control,” he said. He laughed bitterly.

“I don’t understand,” said Merlin.

Leon sat down heavily beside Merlin. “Did you choose to fall in love with Arthur?” he asked.

Merlin startled. “Well... no,” he admitted. “I thought he was a right royal prat.” He smirked, the smile softening to that of unvarnished affection. “But then... you get to know him. You get to see behind all of that arrogance and you learn that he’s just as frightened as everyone else. Sometimes I think he is more so.”

Leon sighed and nodded. The words struck him, but he was not thinking of Arthur. “Do you ever regret being with him?”

“Sometimes I regret _not_ being with him,” Merlin replied. “Like when he charges off into the night chasing shadows.”

“You are no swordsman,” Leon said.

Merlin’s eyes flashed in the firelight. “I know a few tricks.”

“He just worries for you.”

Merlin laid a hand to Leon’s arm. “And who do you worry for, Leon?” he asked softly.

The first of the screams split the air. It was followed by another in close succession and then silence. Leon jumped to his feet, Merlin a split second behind him. Just without the line of the fire, the captured scout huddled in on himself. Leon shoved Merlin back and behind him. He drew his sword.

From the opposite side of the clearing, the beast came. Its coal black fur bristled with fresh blood.

From behind him, Leon heard a gasp. A little further away came the sound of a muttered prayer for mercy to all of the saints, deities, powers or spirits that may have ever existed.

“What’s that?” whispered Merlin urgently.

“A dyrwülf,” answered Leon. He walked towards the flames. The dyrwülf advanced in turn.

Leon levelled his sword, staring down its length. “Leave,” he told the beast.

The dyrwülf growled.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Leon said. He heard the waver of fear in his own voice but knew it stemmed not from cowardice.

They circled the firelight; man and dyrwülf, wolf and lion. The beast’s claws left deep groves in the trampled ground.

The dyrwülf narrowed its eyes at Leon. It sniffed deeply.

“You know I would not willingly hurt you,” continued Leon.

For a second, the dyrwülf seemed to hesitate. The muscles on its back rippled in an aberrant fashion. One side seemed to shrink, the flesh undulating before Leon’s eyes. Their gaze’s met and in those amber orbs Leon saw the wolf that knew him and the man that trusted him.

“ _Leon_ ,” hissed Merlin. Leon’s eyes flashed from the creature to his companion. Merlin seemed to be trying to position himself in a defensive flank to Leon, but he held no weapon or shield in his hand. It might have been that Merlin was trying to take flight; to find a clear path between the beast and the fire.

“Go!” Leon commanded, his attention alternating between the dyrwülf and the unarmed man.

“I will not leave you to face this thing alone.”

“Two men cannot defeat it any more than one,” Leon said. “Take the boy and run!”

“And here I thought Arthur was the clotpole,” Merlin retorted.

“I gave him my _word,_ ” Leon pleaded. He no longer knew whose word he meant. He had sworn to stand by his fellow knights. He had sworn to his King to protect Merlin. He had sworn to the scout that no harm would come to him. He had sworn to Gwaine that the final blow would be his.

“And you give me no choice,” Merlin said. “Hey!” he yelled, flapping his arms. The beast turned its head in his direction. If the wolf showed any sign of taking control, that died as it bared its teeth at the brave but quite possibly insane man. It clawed the ground, sank its head and arched its back; Leon knew it as a prelude to its pounce.

Merlin stretched out his hand and began to speak. His voice was a rumble that seemed to swell as it left his mouth into a roar. “ _An saeangre mas gamu---_ ”

“Merlin!” Arthur barrelled into the clearing. He launched himself at his manservant, landing them both into a heap on the floor.

“Arthur, you bloody idiot!” Merlin cried.

Arthur sprang up. “I am with you, Leon,” he said.

The wolf threw back its head and howled. It leapt towards Arthur. Arthur lifted his sword.

“No!” Leon cried. He threw himself bodily at the beast, shouldering it in an attempt to deflect the bound. The impact was like colliding with solid rock. Leon’s arm went numb and he dropped his sword. Suddenly, the sound of tearing flesh rent through the air. Leon’s head snapped to Arthur.

Arthur’s face was frozen in shock. His sword was held aloft, the blade clean.

By his feet, the young scout lay stretched out on the ground, his tied foot trailing behind him. He held Leon’s sword in both hands, point upturned. It was buried nearly to the hilt in the dyrwülf’s chest.

The dyrwülf snapped soundlessly at the air. Its throat convulsed. It reared back, pulling the sword from the boy’s grasp. It staggered, barely able to support its own weight. The steel clattered to the floor.

“Oh, Gods, no,” Leon whispered.

The dyrwülf shook its head. Droplets of ruby-red blood spilled to the ground.

“You got it Luke!” Merlin cried.

The beast turned tail and fled, its gait a painful limp. Leon did not wait to explain or to check on the health of his King or companions: he set off in pursuit.

****

The wolf knew it was dying and accepted it the way that only an animal could. By the side of a shallow river, it laid down, unable to go any further. It no longer _needed_ to go any further. The end was near, and it was pointless to run on. The moon glinted on the water, making it look like a silver snake rippling between the long grasses of the bank.

It felt the man approach in its mind, even before it smelled or heard him. The man with the kind eyes. The man who had been there when the wolf was struck, but had not struck it himself.

“Gwaine!” called the man. The wolf thought it recognised that word from its dreams, the dreams where it walked upon two legs and had very little fur. It remembered the many ways that word had been said: in annoyance, in anger, in laughter, in _love._ That name, it was a _name_ , spoken in breathy moans. It was _his_ name.

The wolf whimpered again, louder this time. It wanted to be found by the man. The thunder of the man’s feet running timed to the fluttering of the wolf’s failing heart. The man fell to his knees at the wolf’s side. His trembling hands hovered just above the wolf’s fur as if he was afraid to touch it.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a sob. “I failed you.” His fingers finally wound into the wolf’s coat. The wolf whined softly. It closed its eyes.

****

“Leon!”

The voice echoed through the night. Leon heard it only as a faint distraction. He still sat by the wolf, feeling its grasp on life weaken. He knew the muddy ground was seeping wetly into his breeches. He knew that the cold air had turned his body numb. He knew and did not care. Nothing mattered as much as being here at the end.

“Leon,” the voice said again. It was so close that it demanded attention, coming as it did from Leon’s side. Leon reluctantly lifted his eyes, knowing by the blurring that they were damp with tears. “We were worried for you, going off alone.”

It was Merlin. He hurried to Leon’s side, crouching. He saw the wolf on the ground. Breath barely stirred in it. He frowned. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Leon shook his head.

“Please,” implored Merlin.

Leon’s voice broke. “It wasn’t meant to be this way,” he sobbed. His fingers tightened in the wolf’s fur.

“Is that...” Merlin said, looking at the wolf, “the thing that attacked us.”

Leon nodded, again beyond words.

“But it’s so small.” He frowned again. “I felt there was something strange about it. When it entered the clearing it was like...” his voice trailed off. “An enchantment?” he said.

“Of a form,” Leon said quietly. The wisdom of Merlin’s deduction gave him the faintest vestiges of hope. “Merlin, you know the healing craft,” he whispered. “Can you save him?”

Merlin ruffled his hair thoughtfully. “I’ve never tried to heal an animal before,” he admitted. “Their humours are different to those of a man.”

“But could you _try_?” Leon pleaded. The wolf let out a ragged whine.

Merlin pressed his lips together. “I know the enchantment is a cruel one, but it is just a _wolf_. Perhaps it is better just to let it die.”

Leon finally broke. Tears fell freely. “It’s _Gwaine_ ,” he said through chattering teeth.

Merlin looked from the wolf to Leon, his face shifting between disbelief and horror. “Gwaine?” he asked.

“He has been cursed. Since the fight with the dyrwülf before the harvest. We’ve tried... I’ve tried...” Leon sobbed. “Please,” he begged.

Merlin hesitated. He didn’t have his satchel with him, where Leon knew he kept his herbs. He shook his head. “No choice,” he muttered. He leant forward and put his hand to the wolf’s chest, over the wound, red smearing over his pale skin.

“What are you...”

“ _Gestricie pis lic forod_ ,” Merlin whispered. The wolf’s eyes snapped open. They were vessels of amber fire. Leon’s jaw dropped. He stared at Merlin. The other man’s own eyes were wide and shone with the same, fierce light as the wolf’s. “ _An ansangue, al mestricos_.” Sweat stood out on Merlin’s brow. “ _Pis lic forod! Pis lic ansangue_!” he roared. He collapsed forward, bracing himself in the mud. The wolf’s eyes closed. Merlin turned his head to Leon, eyes red with held-back tears.

“I’m sorry, Leon,” he said. “The curse was too powerful. It is not just the wound that is killing Gwaine, it is that as well.”

“Try _harder_ ,” Leon urged desperately. “There must be something you can do with your... your...”

“Magic,” Merlin finished for him. “Leon, believe me, if there was more I could do, I would. I can feel the curse, it’s like tiny flames in every drop of Gwaine’s blood. But the wound is not the _source_ of the curse and, without that, there is _nothing_ I can do.”

“His wrist,” whispered Leon. Merlin frowned curiously at him. “That was where the curse originated, where it first entered Gwaine’s body. The bite on his arm that would not heal!” He did not mean to grab Merlin, or to shake him, but both he did.

The wolf’s breaths were shallow and ragged. It did not move as Merlin took its wrist in his hand.

“ _Amas mo fawrd_ ,” Merlin said. Once more, a blink turned his blue eyes to gold. “I can sense the magic of the curse. It is old; ancient. It was born of anger,” he hissed. “ _Garab sheed avar_.”

“Hold on, Gwaine,” Leon whispered.

 _“Gam durroch al keinas._ He’s weak, the curse has nearly claimed him.”

Leon clutched the fur of the wolf’s ruff. “Please Gwaine, be strong. For me. For _us._ ”

“ _Gestricie pis lic forod_ ,” Merlin said. “ _Gestricie pis lic forod!”_ He trembled. With his other hand, Leon grasped Merlin’s arm.

“ _Gestricie pis lic forod_!” Merlin bellowed, so loudly that the forest shook. Suddenly, he went limp: his eyes rolled in his head and he collapsed, falling backwards this time in a dead faint.

The wolf made a noise, a pained rattle, and fell silent. Its breathing stopped.

Leon felt its heartbeat cease.

It was a soundless grief that took Leon. His hands clutched to the cooling body of this animal, the cage for his friend’s mortal body. Merlin’s unconscious form lay a short foot from him, as if asleep. Part of Leon knew that it was unworthy of him to weep so for Gwaine, when he had not permitted himself to mourn for others that had fallen. But there was a difference: their lives had been spent by the Knight’s Code; defending the land, protecting the King and preserving the weak. Gwaine’s death was pointless; a cruel thing that it should come to such an end. Leon did not even have Gwaine’s true form to raise a cairn over. He heard Merlin stir distantly; felt trembling fingers found his own and prised them from the wolf.

“He’s gone,” he heard Merlin say. He allowed himself to be held: never had he thought that he would need to be comforted this way. Leon was supposed to be the one that protected people from hurt. Merlin’s arms were surprisingly strong as they encircled him, whispered promises of peace doing nothing to still the pain, betrayal and irrational anger Leon felt in his heart. He did not know how long they stayed that way.

There was a groan beside them. “I would say... over my dead body, but the two of you... seem to have done alright... on that account.”

Leon and Merlin burst apart. “Gwaine!” Merlin cried.

“In the flesh,” said the naked man. He patted himself and then looked up to the heavens. “Actually, why _am_ I in the flesh if the moon’s still up?”

Leon threw himself at Gwaine, caring nought for appearance or propriety. He enveloped the shivering form of his friend, heaving him from the mud and the swale and bundling him into an embrace.

“Ach, careful,” Gwaine hissed. Leon allowed him room to breathe but kept a hold of his hand, turning over the unblemished skin that had born the bite-marks of the dyrwülf for so many months. Gwaine touched the dull, red patch on his chest that marked where the sword-wound had been. He looked at Merlin. “Good work with... whatever it was you did,” he congratulated.

“He healed you,” Leon said. “With magic.”

“Ah, magic,” Gwaine said. Leon helped him to his feet and wrapped him in his cloak. “Shame about that.”

Leon scowled. “He saved your _life_ , Gwaine. He cured you of the curse and brought you back... to me,” he added quietly.

“There was no choice,” said Merlin sheepishly, his eyes roving over the obvious closeness of the two knights. “I swore to myself long ago that I would never let one of you die if I could prevent it. My secret isn’t worth that.”

“Then Arthur doesn’t know?” Leon asked.

Merlin shook his head.

“If you two drama queens will give a man the chance to speak,” Gwaine interrupted. “I just meant that I’ve lost five gold pieces to Agravad the Smithy. We had a sweep-stake going in the tavern on what had you looked so worried all the time. He said he thought you were secretly a sorcerer. I just thought you had a thing for women’s clothing.”

Merlin blinked at him. Slowly, a smile formed and then a laugh. “I have my moments,” he admitted.

Leon drew Gwaine in again, hugging him to his side with a relief he would never be able to express. “Well, regardless: we both owe you greatly, and would not presume to betray your trust,” he promised gratefully.

“He means ‘your secret is safe with us’,” Gwaine translated. He squeezed Leon fondly about his waist.

Merlin eyes went between them. Enlightenment slowly spread over his brow. “And of your secret?” he enquired.

Self-conscious heat spread through Leon’s cheeks but there was very little point in attempting a denial; what Merlin had seen beggared very little misinterpretation. The bond between knights was deep, but Leon’s grief went beyond even that for a brother. It was the grief of a lover, and they clung to each other with the knowledge that even death would never part them again. “We’d rather it... remain as such, for now,” he said.

Gwaine shrugged. “An’ here was me thinking I’d get to introduce you as the old ball and chain from now on.”

“I think we should be getting you back to camp,” Leon chastised gently.

“Yes dear,” Gwaine agreed.

Merlin laughed and put his arm around Gwaine’s free shoulder. Together, they returned to the encampment.

****

“So you chased the beast down?” Arthur asked.

Leon nodded.

“And you saw it die?”

Leon’s eyes flicked to Gwaine, helping himself to food, fire and as many wineskins as he could get his hands on. “I did, Sire,” Leon said.

Arthur sighed. “Very well then,” he confirmed. “But Leon, you should know better than to run off unaided. A wounded beast cornered is an unpredictable foe. You need a man by your side at times like that.”

“Well, Merlin was there...” Leon admitted.

“And I will be having words with him about that in private.”

Despite all the troubles of the night, Arthur’s words raised a twitching smile to the corners of Leon’s lips.

Arthur’s normally inscrutably regal face pinked in an almost pretty fashion. “Yes, well,” he flustered. “And you say that you found Gwaine on your way back to camp?”

Leon nodded.

“And is there _any_ explanation why he was naked?”

“It’s Gwaine, My lord.”

Arthur frowned and then nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “Well, at least he is safe.”

“He’s safe,” agreed Leon. “And...” he licked his lips, “the other men?”

“Garratt and Amain were both found unconscious, but they will live.”

Leon exhaled. “That’s good,” he said.

“We were lucky,” Arthur confessed. “Were it not for the boy Lucan, I fear things would have gone very differently.”

“Indeed,” Leon replied. His gaze strayed again to the fire, and Gwaine. The other man caught his eye and suddenly it was not only the pit that blazed. “If you will forgive me, Sire,” he said. “It has been a long day and if we are to do battle tomorrow I fear I must take my leave of you.”

“Yes, absolutely, Leon,” Arthur agreed. “I didn’t mean to quiz you. It has been a trying day all ‘round.”

Leon bowed a little. He walked casually to the fire and took his seat.

Gwaine passed him a skin-full. “Drink with me,” he said with a boisterous hiccup.

Leon leant in, finding his companion’s ear. “I would rather sleep with you,” he murmured.

Gwaine smirked. “Ah, well: a cramped camp like this, two weary soldiers sharing a patch of dry ground and the warmth of their bodies...”

“My thoughts exactly,” Leon growled. “Now get to bed.”

****

“You’re tired,” Merlin said quietly. He put his hands to Arthur’s shoulders, kneading the muscles.

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned back into Merlin’s touch for a brief, weak moment. “Yes, I am,” he conceded.

“Then why are you still awake?”

The camp had long since stilled in slumber. The knight’s all slept in a grand arch around one side of the fire, nestled by the horses and packs. Arms touched, legs touched, bodies touched. Nothing was thought of it. Merlin looked at Gwaine and Leon. They slept soundly, figures cradled around each other; Leon’s arm swept across Gwaine’s stomach, Gwaine’s own arm drawn backwards and over Leon’s. If anyone else were to see it, it would be dismissed as a thing of the road, a creation of sleep. Merlin knew it for what it really was.

Arthur followed his gaze. “I nearly lost four of my knights today. Two of them are among my closest allies.”

Merlin kissed the skin of Arthur’s neck just below the ear. “Most people call them ‘friends’,” he provided.

“Indeed,” Arthur agreed. “They are my friends. And tomorrow, I will order them to ride into danger once more.”

“They fight for you _willingly_ , Arthur,” Merlin said. His hands stroked down Arthur’s arms and then tied around his waist. He rested his chin in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder. “We all do.”

Arthur leant back, allowing Merlin to take a fraction more of his weight. “I don’t want you fighting anyone for me.”

Merlin laughed. “Arthur, I’m not a princess in a tower. I don’t need to be rescued.”

“But nor are you a warrior.”

“No,” Merlin agreed. “But I would spend my last breath to protect you. As you would for me. And the men for you. And you for your men. That is the nature of love. Never think that they do not love you, Arthur,” he said.

Arthur turned in his arms. “And you?”

Merlin laughed. “And I,” he agreed. He dipped his head to kiss his Lord - his _Arthur_ , now they were alone.

Arthur sighed into it. “I’m no longer sure about making war on the brigands,” he admitted.

“Because you might lose knights?”

Arthur shook his head. “I talked to the boy Lucan. He told me that more than half of the bandit’s hoard are like him: village folk who have been led to believe that Camelot is a place of repression and an iron fist, of sovereign cruelty which the knight’s dole out on behalf of their King.”

“That’s just because they don’t know you, Arthur. They only know what they have heard and what the leaders of the band tell them - men who care less for the truth than filling their own purses with despoiled gold.”

“ _I_ know that,” agreed Arthur. “But massacring them will hardly change their minds, will it? If I send my knights in against people like that, then am I really any better than their tales tell?”

Merlin took Arthur’s hand. “Then find another way. Show them that you are the King _we_ know you to be.” He pressed a soft kiss to Arthur’s mouth. “The kind.” He punctuated the statement with a further kiss. “The just. The loyal. The gentle.” He walked Arthur backwards towards the patch of ground they had claimed as their own for that night and sank to it. They took the stillness to reassure each other of what they shared. Little could be achieved in the dark, through their clothing; but little was enough.

“You forgot one thing,” Arthur whispered to Merlin as he was falling asleep.

“The inopportunely verbose?” Merlin suggested drowsily.

Arthur kissed his forehead. “The very bloody lucky,” he replied.


	10. Epilogue - Sol-mónaþ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now is the right time.

In the end, there was no battle. The knights of under Percival’s command circled to the far side of the camp, those under Arthur’s direct control took the breech. At the sight of the crimson banners of the Knights of Camelot flanking them, the bandit leaders either ran or surrendered. Those that ran were permitted to escape, those that surrendered entered into a parley; King and common-lords and tribesmen together. Arthur promised them peace, on the accord that the raids would stop, and promised an amnesty with those terms. He told them that if they did not wish to become vassals, it would not be forced, but that he would promise to defend their lands with his own life if they decided to do so.

If it was not Arthur’s promises that swayed them, it was Lucan’s. That he returned, alive, was a cause of much discussion. That his fellow scout - Pieter - did not, caused little surprise. It was well known that Pieter was a trouble-causer and too quick to reach for his sword. He had joined the brigands from wish rather than need. Lucan told his former comrades that these were noble men - even, or perhaps especially - the common ones. He span the tale of the encounter of the dyrwülf to wide eyes. That this King might charge to the rescue of a mere servant, to face down a hell-beast five times the size of a man, with teeth as long as your arm and eyes that burned like hell itself, became - in years to come - a favourite about the fire.

Lucan returned with the host to Camelot. Arthur honoured him in the audience chamber and granted him the status of freeman of Camelot. The knights that gathered applauded him. The young man looked like he might burst with pride.

“So, do you think you’ll hang around?” Merlin asked of Lucan once the ceremony was concluded.

Lucan shrugged. “I think I might. I’ve never been to a real town, just the villages close to my old master’s house. There’s so much... stuff.”

“Oh, there is at that,” Merlin agreed. “The old temple...”

“The tavern.”

“The library.”

“The docks.”

“The proving grounds.”

“The _docks_ ,” Lucan repeated.

Merlin grinned. “I should introduce you to Gwaine,” he said.

Lucan nodded towards the man in question. “I don’t think he needs anyone else introduced to him,” he smirked.

Merlin followed his gaze, to where Gwaine and Leon were gathered with some of the other knights. It was true. While they were private with their intimacies, there was no doubt that he and Leon were _together._ Even when not side by side, there was something in how they stood - how their actions mirrored the other. They were equals and opposites. Merlin would never believe two such men as that could find peace together, were it not for the fact that he - the village-boy-turned-servant and allegedly the most powerful sorceror in history - had awoken next to the King.

“Well, if you tire of the tavern and the docks,” Merlin said, turning his attention back to Lucan, “Arthur has promised you a place here and he will not go back on his word.”

“I don’t think swinging a sword is what I really want to do with my life,” Lucan replied.

“There are other positions of honour in the Royal household,” said Merlin. He took Lucan’s arm. “Just think about it.”

Lucan nodded. He headed for the door pausing only for a final look around the chambers: the assembled knights; the King and the servant he put before his own life. He waved at Merlin and left.

Merlin walked towards Gwaine and Leon. The knights that stood with them took their respectful leave. Without words, it seemed that the others knew that there was something between these three that sublimed their allegiance. Together with Percival, they formed the very soul of Camelot, and Arthur as its heart.

“So,” Merlin said. “Curses lifted, the realm is safe, we have a new ally in the form of Lucan and two of my best friends are courting. I do love a happy ending.”

Gwaine laughed and set a friendly arm about Leon’s shoulders. It was a genial gesture, but Merlin - a veritable wizard at casual touches - knew it for what it was. “I’m looking forward to seeing the two of you in action.”

Leon cocked his head at him. Merlin reassessed his words. He flushed. “I didn’t mean... _seeing_. Or action. Or... um... any of that last sentence really,” he stammered.

Gwaine smirked rakishly - some might even say _wolfishly_ \- at Merlin’s discomfiture. “The more the merrier, I say,” said he.

Leon turned a scowl on Gwaine. “He’s joking with you,” he said seriously.

Gwaine’s smile widened. “I’m joking with you,” he agreed.

Leon’s face lightened. His and Gwaine’s eyes met for a soft second. Merlin wondered if the meaning of the glances he and Arthur shared was as transparent as that. A flash caught Merlin’s eye. Above his ceremonial armour, Leon wore a short chain that held a golden band, its metal polished to a gleam like the sun on frost. Merlin looked at Gwaine, tipping his head a little to one side as he did. Gwaine wore his familiar sickle but above it was a ring wrought of silver, shining like the halo around the full moon. Merlin thought he understood.

“Gwaine!” It was Percival calling. “There’s a wild rumour going around that you have proof Agravad owes you five gold pieces!”

Gwaine shot Merlin a vaguely apologetic smile and shrugged. He wandered off to see Perci, punching his much taller companion on the arm as they left the chamber.

“I envy you two,” Merlin said aloud, watching them leave. He flushed as he realised he had spoken with-out his head.

“Us? Why?” Leon said.

“Because you didn’t have to hide things from each other.”

Leon laid a gentle, comforting hand to Merlin’s arm. “I fell in love with Gwaine not despite him being a wolf, but because of it.” Merlin opened his mouth to speak, brow furrowed curiously. “Not,” assured Leon, “for any untoward reason, but because of the choices he made. He could have absolved himself of responsibility, he could have made excuses. He could even have given himself over to the curse. But he didn’t. There is goodness in his heart as...” Leon broke, his eyes fluttering from Merlin’s face, “there is in yours. The gifts you have could be used for gain; for wealth or power or to exact revenge. But you use them instead for good, at risk and without wish for reward. Arthur will understand that when you tell him.”

Merlin sighed. It was perhaps the longest thing he had ever heard Leon say and damn it, if it didn’t make perfect sense. “I want to tell him,” he said. “God knows the number of times it’s been right there on the tip of my tongue. But it’s always... for a reason. I just want him to know because... it’s who I am.”

Leon looked around the emptying audience chamber. “The world doesn’t seem to be ending right now,” he said quietly. He let his arm fall, stepped back and made a short bow, leaving Merlin to consider his words.

Merlin looked to Arthur. He had been pinned into a corner by Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was no doubt pontificating on some ‘fascinating’ new find in the genealogical records. Their eyes snagged. Arthur’s gaze said both a soft ‘ _hey you’_ , and also ‘ _help!_ ’

Leon was right, there was absolutely nothing stopping Merlin, nor forcing him to tell Arthur.

Now was the right time.  



End file.
